Zhc  Xafte  jenglisb  Classics 


THE     •>;.;:"••■•:' 
HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND,  Esq, 


BY 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


EDITED  FOR  SCHOOL  USE 
BY 

WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 

M.A.  [Harvard],  Ph.D.  fYale] 

LAMPSON  PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATTJBB, 
YALE  UNIVERSITY 


OF    TH6 

UMIVERS 


CHICAGO 
SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1902, 
BY    SCOTT,    FORESMAN  AND  COMPAlTSr 


ROBERT      O  LAV/      COM 

PRINTERS    AND     BINDERS,   CI 


rK6 


PREFACE 


The  text  of  this  edition  is  taken,  by  the  kind  permission  of 
Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers,  from  the  Biographical  Edition  of 
Tliackeray's  works.  With  the  exception  of  some  half-dozen  typo- 
graphical errors,  I  have  followed  that  standard  text  verhatim  et 
literatim.  The  Introduction  is  intended  to  furnish  the  necessary 
biographical  information,  with  just  enough  literary  criticism  to 
arouse  and  stimulate,  rather  than  to  answer  and  settle,  inquiry  and 
discussion.  It  is  hoped  that  the  "Suggestions  for  Studying 
Esmond'^  will  not  seem  an  impertinence;  to  those  who  dislike  such 
remarks,  they  can  cause  only  a  temporary  irritation,  while  it  is 
possible  that  in  some  cases  they  may  prove  useful.  After  thorough 
consideration,  I  have  decided  to  furnish  no  notes;  anything 
approaching  complete  annotation  would  swell  the  volume  to  thrice 
its  present  size,  while  meagre  and  scattering  bits  of  explanation 
are,  to  the  judicious  instructor,  an  annoyance.  Esmond  is,  after 
all,  a  romance  rather  than  a  text-book;  and  yet,  those  students 
who  are  able  to  spend  considerable  time  upon  it  may,  by  looking  up 
for  themselves  its  frequent  historical  and  literary  allusions,  find  in 
this  great  work  of  fiction  the  gateway  to  a  valuable  knowledge  of 
eighteenth  century  life  and  literature. 

Yale  University,  W.  L.  P. 

June  14,  1903. 


20^530 


L 


CONTENTS 

Preface 

Introduction 

Life .  1 

Works .12 

"Esmond" .  19 

Suggestions  for  Studying  "Esmond" 24 

A  Few  Works  Helpful  in  Studying  "Esmond"    ...  27 

Author's  Preface 31 

BOOK  I 

THE   EARLY   YOUTH    OF    HENRY    ESMOND,    UP    TO    THE    TIME    OF    HI? 
LEAVING   TRINITY   COLLEGE  IN   CAMBRIDGE 

CHAP.  PAGI 

I.     An  Account  of  the  Family  of  Esmond  of  Castlewood 

Hall        ..........       41 

II.     Relates    How    Francis,   Fourth  Viscount    Arrives    at 

Castlewood 47 

III.  Whither,  in  the  Time  of  Thomas,  Third  Viscount,    I 

Had  Preceded  Him  as  Page  to  Isabella       ,        .        .56 

IV.  I  am  Placed  Under  a  Popish  Priest,  and  Bred  to  that 

Religion — Viscountess  Castlewood      ....      68 
V.     My  Superiors  are  Engaged  in  Plots  for  the  Restoration 

of  King  James  the  Second 75 

VI.  The  Issue  of  the  Plots— The  Death  of  Thomas,  Third 

Viscount  of  Castlew^ood ;  and  the  Imprisonment  of 
His  Viscountess  87 

VII.  I  am  Left  at  Castlewood,  an  Orphan,  and  Find  Most 

Kind  Protectors  There 108 

VHI.     After  Good  Fortune  Comes  Evil 112 

IX.     I  Have  the  Small-Pox,  and  Prepare  to  Leave  Castlewood  122 

X.     I  Go  to  Cambridge,  and  Do  But  Little  Good  There        .  143 
XL     I  Come  Home  for  a  Holiday  to  Castlewood,  and  Find  a 

Skeleton  in  the  House 151 

XII,     My  Lord  Mohun  Comes  Among  Us  for  No  Good    .        .  165 
XIIL     My  Lord  Leaves  Us  and  His  Evil  Behind  Him        .         .176 

XIV.     We  Ride  After  Him  to  London 190 

vii 


viii  CO^'TEyTS 


BOOK  II 

CONTAINS  MR     ESMOND'S  MILITARY   LIFE   AND  OTHER  MATTERS 

APPERTAINING  TO  THE  ESMOND   FAMILY 

CHAP.  PAGB 

I.     I  am  in  Prison,  and  Visited,  but  Not  Consoled  There  207 
II.     I  Come  to  the  End  of  My  Captivity,  but  Not  of  My 

Trouble 218 

III.  f  I  Take  the  Queen's  Pay  in  Quin's  Regiment  .        .        .  228 

IV.  Recapitulations          . 239 

V.     I  Go  On  the  Vigo  Bay  Expedition,  Taste  Salt  Water, 

and  Smell  Powder 2-16 

VI.     The  29th  December 258 

VII.     I  am  Made  Welcome  at  Walcote 266 

VIII.     Family  Talk                277 

IX.     I  Make  the  Campaign  of  1704  .        .        .        .        .        .285 

X.     An  Old  Story  About  a  Fool  and  a  AVoman      .        .        .  295 

XL     The  Famous  Mr.  Joseph  Addison 305 

XII.     I  Get  a  Company  in  the  Campaign  of  1706      .        .        .  317 

XIII.  I  Meet  an  Old  Acquaintance  in  Flanders,  and  Find  My 

Mother's  Grave  and  My  Own  Cradle  There         .         .  323 

XIV.  The  Campaign  of  1707,  1708 337 

XV.     General  Webb  Wins  the  Battle  of  Wynendael               .  346 


BOOK  III 

CONTAINING  THE  END  OF  MR.  ESMOND'S  ADVENTURES  IN  ENGLAND 

I.     I  Come  to  an  End  of  My  Battles  and  Bruises  .        .         .  374 
II.     I  Go  Home  and  Harp  on  the  Old  String  ,        .        .        .389 

III.  A  Paper  Out  of  the  "Spectator" 404 

IV.  Beatrix's  New  Suitor 425 

V.     Mohun  Appears  for  the  Last  Time  in  this  History         .  437 

VI.     Poor  Beatrix 452 

VII.     I  Visit  Castlewood  Once  More 459 

VIII.     I  Travel  to  France   and    Bring  Home  a   Portrait  of 

Rigaud 471 

IX.     The  Original  of  the  Portrait  Comes  to  England      .         .  482 
X.     We  Entertain  a  Very  Distinguished  Guest  at  Kensing- 
ton   497 

XL     Our  Guest  Quits  Us  as  Not  Being  Hospitable  Enough   .  512 

J^IL     A  Great  Scheme,  and  Who  Balked  It      ...        .  523 

XIIL     August  1st,  1714         .......  530 


INTKODUCTION 


LIFE 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  was  born  at  Calcutta,  India, 

July  18,  1811,  two  years  after  the  birth  of  Tennyson,  Gladstone,  and 

Darwin,  and  only  a  year  before  that  of  Browning, 
Ancestors. 

and  the  novelist's  great  rival,  Charles  Dickens.  It 
is  somewhat  remarkable  that  a  group  of  Englishmen  endowed  with 
such  extraordinary  genius  in  literature,  politics,  and  science 
should  have  all  entered  the  world  within  a  period  of  four  years. 
Thackeray  came  from  a  Yorkshire  family,  one  of  whom  in  the 
eighteenth  century  was  successively  Head-Master  of  Harrow,  and 
Archdeacon  of  Surrey.  William  Makepeace,  the  youngest  of 
his  sixteen  children,  went  to  the  Orient  to  make  his  living 
under  the  East  India  Company.  Besides  showing  a  distinct  apti- 
tude for  political  manipulation,  he  enjoyed  a  wide  reputation  as 
an  elephant  hunter.  In  1776  he  was  married  to  a  daughter  of 
Colonel  Richmond  Webb,  a  relative  of  the  distinguished  gen- 
eral whose  praises  are  sounded  so  frequently  in  the  pages  of  Esmond. 
In  this  same  year,  having  made  a  comfortable  sum  by  selling 
elephants,  he  returned  to  England.  Six  of  his  sons  followed  their 
father's  example,  and  sought  their  fortune  by  going  to  India. 
In  1810  one  of  them,  Richmond  Thackeray,  was  married  to  a 
Calcutta  belle,  and  an  only  child,  the  future  novelist,  received  the 
same  name  as  his  grandfather  and  his  uncle.  William  Make- 
peace. Richmond  was  a  lover  of  art,  both  pictorial  and  musical, 
and  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  delight  in  tracing  the  qualities  of 
a  genius  back  to  his  ancestry,  we  may  observe  that  perhaps  the 

1 


2  INTRODUCTION 

great  ^'''"iter  derivad  h^'s  artistic  ability  from  his  father,  his  courage 
from  his  elephant-hunting  grandfather,  and  his  predilection  for 
teaching  and  preaching  from  his  great-grandfather,  who  was  a 
burning  and  a  shining  light  in  the  wide  fields  of  education  and  the 
Church. 

In  1816  Richmond  Thackeray  died,  and  the  next  year  the  boy 
was  sent  to  England.     During  the  voyage  the  ship  stopped  at  St. 

Helena  and  the  grandchild  of  the  Manager  of  Ele- 
Early  Years,     phants  gazed    on    the    features  of  the  Manager  of 

Men,  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  Thackeray  first  went 
to  school  in  Hampshire,  where  so  many  of  the  scenes  in  Esmond 
are  laid,  then  at  Chiswick,  while  from  1822  to  1828  he  was  a  pupil 
at  the  Charterhouse,  a  famous  school  where  boys  so  different  as 
John  Wesley  and  George  Grote  had  preceded  him,  and  where  Colo- 
nel Newcome  was  to  die.  Young  Thackeray  seemed  in  no  way 
precocious,  and  did  not  injure  his  health  by  overstudy,  though 
even  at  that  time  he  amused  himself  by  the  composition  of  playful 
verses.  The  most  distinct  impression  made  upon  him  during  his 
school  days  was  by  one  of  his  mates,  V  enables,  who  broke  his  nose 
in  a  fight.  Thackeray  always  regarded  English  school  life  as 
rough  and  brutal,  and  he  was  able  to  refresh  his  memory  of  it  at 
aijv  time  by  glancing  in  a  mirror. 

Thackeray's  mother  had  married  again,  and  in  1828  the  youth 
went  from  the  Charterhouse  to  live  with  her  and  his  step-father 

in    Devonshire,    near     Ottery    St.     Mary,    already 
CoUege  i.ife.    famous  as  the  birth-place  of  Coleridge.     Here  again 

his  impressionable  mind  unconsciously  absorbed 
material,  to  appear  later  on  in  Pendennis,  where  the  above-men- 
tioned town  is  thinly  disguised  as  Clavering  St.  Mary.  Mr.  Leslie 
Stephen  believes  that  the  county  paper,  which  printed  the  boy's 
parody  on  Moore,  had  the  honor  of  containing  Thackeray's  first 
publication.  In  February  1829,  he  went  to  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge, entering  Trinity  College.  Here  his  life  conformed  some- 
what to  the  pattern  pictured  in  Pendennis.  He  was  too  indolent  to 
study  diligently,  his  preparation  in  Greek  and  Latin  was  meagre, 


LIFE  OF  THACKERAY  8 

and,  like  most  literary  geniuses,  he  disliked  mathematics.  His 
social  qualities,  however,  developed  rapidly;  and  in  this  highly 
important  phase  of  college  life  he  appeared  to  most  advantage.  At 
that  time  an  extraordinary  body  of  young  men  were  at  Cambridge, 
including  Tennyson,  Edward  FitzGerald,  Spedding,  and  Monckton 
Milnes.  Thackeray  did  much  desultory  reading  in  poetry,  and  in  the 
novels  of  Henry  Fielding ;  and  wrote  bits  of  nonsense  for  the  S)iob, 
a  college  paper.  To  this  mock  journal  he  contributed  a  parody  on 
the  subject  announced  for  the  prize  in  poetry — Timbjictoo.  Both 
subject  and  parody  would  to-day  be  forgotten,  had  not  the  prize 
finally  been  won  by  Thackeraj^'s  college  mate,  Alfred  Tennyson. 

Thackeray's  rooms  at  Cambridge  were  in  the  great  court  of 
Trinity,  on  the  ground  floor,  not  far  from  the  gateway.  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  had  occupied  the  room  just  above,  and  the  young  student 
playfully  prophesied  to  his  mother  that  future  visitors  would  come 
to  see  the  place  where  "Newton  and  Thackeray"  lodged.  This 
prophecy  has  certainly  been  realised,  for  the  thousands  of  Ameri- 
can tourists  who  wander  through  Cambridge  every  summer,  invar- 
iably visit  this  corner  of  Trinity,  and  are  probably  more  impressed 
by  the  memory  of  Thackeray  than  by  that  of  the  great  scientist. 
Not  long  before  Thackeray's  undergraduate  days,  another  man  had 
roomed  close  by,  who  has  helped  also  to  draw  pilgrims — Lord 
Macaulay. 

In  1830  the  young  man  quitted  Cambridge  without  a  degree. 
He  suspected  he  was  losing  valuable  time,  and  he  knew  he  was 
losing  money,  which  he  spent  freely.  His  father 
had  left  him  about  one  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
and  disregarding  the  advice  of  his  relatives,  who  urged  him  to 
become  a  lawyer,  and  not  feeling  a  strong  desire  to  become  any- 
thing else,  he  decided  to  improve  his  mind  by  Continental  travel. 
Before  the  year  was  out,  he  had  visited  Cologne  and  arrived  at 
Weimar,  the  home  of  the  greatest  literary  genius  of  modern  times, 
Goethe.  The  poet  was  over  eighty,  and  had  only  two  years  to  live. 
Thackeray  had  the  rare  opportunity  of  observing  (to  quote  Carlyle) 
"that  great  mind,  beaming  in  mildest  mellow  splendour,  beaming, 


4  INTRODUCTION 

if  also  trembling,  like  a  great  sun  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon,  near 
now  to  its  long  farewell."  That  the  light  of  this  glorious  sunset 
was  an  inspiration  to  the  young  Englishman,  we  may  see  from  his 
own  words,  in  a  letter  to  G.  H.  Lewes,  April  38,  1855: 

Of  course  I  remember  very  well  the  perturbation  of  spirit 
with  which,  as  a  lad  of  nineteen,  I  received  the  long-expected 
intimation  that  the  Herr  Geheimrath  would  see  me  on  such  a 
morning.  This  notable  audience  took  place  in  a  little  ante-chambei- 
of  his  private  apartments,  covered  all  round  with  antique  casts  and 
bas-reliefs.  He  was  habited  in  a  long  grey  or  drab  redingote,  with 
a  white  neckcloth  and  a  red  ribbon  in  his  Ijutton-hole.  He  kept 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  just  as  in  Ranch's  statuette.  His  coia- 
plexion  was  very  bright,  clear,  and  rosy.  His  eyes  extraordinarily 
dark,  piercing,  and  brilliant.  I  felt  quite  afraid  before  them,  and 
recollect  comparing  them  to  the  eyes  of  the  hero  of  a  certain 
romance  called  "Melmoth  the  Wanderer,"  which  used  to  alarm  us 
boys  thirty  years  agO;  eyes  of  an  individual  wlio  had  made  a  bar- 
gain with  a  Certain  Person,  and  at  an  extreme  old  age  retained 
these  eyes  in  all  their  awful  splendour.  I  fancy  Goethe  must  have 
been  still  more  handsome  as  an  old  man  than  even  in  the  days  of 
his  youth.  His  voice  was  very  rich  and  sweet.  He  asked  me  ques- 
tions about  myself,  which  I  answered  as  best  I  could.  I  recollect  I 
was  at  first  astonished,  and  then  somewhat  relieved,  when  I  found 
he  spoke  French  with  not  a  good  accent. 

Vidi  tantum.  I  saw  him  but  three  times.  Once  walking  in 
the  garden  of  his  house  in  the  Frauenplan;  once  going  to  step  into 
his  chariot  on  a  sunshiny  day,  wearing  a  cap  and  a  cloak  with  a 
red  collar.  He  was  caressing  at  the  time  a  beautiful  little  golden- 
haired  granddaughter,  over  whose  sweet  fair  face  the  earth  has 
long  since  closed  too.  ...  I  can  fancy  nothing  more  serene,  majes- 
tic, and  healthy-looking  than  the  grand  old  Goethe. 

This  sojourn  at  Weimar  included  possibly  the  happiest  weeks 
of  Thackeraj-'s  life.  He  increased  his  knowledge  of  German,  made 
pretty  translations,  and  his  pencil  was  ever  active  in  caricatures. 
At  the  close  of  the  letter  quoted  above,  he  wrote: 

With  a  five-and-twenty  years'  experience  since  those  happy 
daj's  of  which  I  write,  and  an  acquaintance  with  an  immense  variety 
of  human  kind,  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a  society  more  simple, 
charitable,  courteous,  gentleman-like,  than  that  of  the  dear  little 
Saxon  city  where  the  good  Schiller  and  the  great  Goethe  lived  and 
lie  buried. 

Thackeray  spent  much  ot  his  time  there  lying  on  a  sofa  and 
indulging  in  day-dreams;  but  the  day-dreams  of  some  men  are 
more  productive  than  the  energy  of  others. 


LIFE  OF  THACKERAY  » 

Rather  suddenly  he  made  up  his  mind,  after  all,  to  study  law, 
and  in  1831  he  returned  to  England,  and  entered  the  Middle  Tem- 
ple. This  seems  to  have  been  an  attempt,  equally 
honest  and  mistaken,  to  force  his  genius  into  the 
wrong  channel;  for  all  he  got  out  of  this  experience  was  material 
for  future  novels.  We  can  hardly  imagine  a  man  less  fitted  for 
the  legal  profession.  He  stuck  to  his  studies,  however,  until  they 
became  wholly  unpalatable,  and  even  before  the  end,  he  had  more 
than  once  to  go  to  Paris  to  take  the  taste  of  the  Temple  out  of  his 
mouth. 

By  1833  Thackeray; was  becoming,  in  a  mild  way,  something  of 

a  literary  Bohemian,    and  his  acquaintance  among  literary   men 

was  steadily  increasing.      He  made  one  desperate 

Journalism'         ,  ,  .    ,  . 

plunge,  by  smking — an  appropriate  word — some  of 
liis  capital  in  a  paper,  of  which  he  was  Editor  and  Proprietor, 
Fiaancially,  the  result  was  unfortunate,  and  early  in  1834  the 
journal  died.  The  money  lost  in  this  venture,  combined  with  fail- 
ures in  investments,  and  ill  luck  at  gambling,  produced  an  entire 
change  in  his  assets,  and  he  suddenly  discovered,  that  like  most 
children  of  Adam,  he  must  eat  his  bread  in  the  sweat  of  his  face. 
He  therefore  determined  to  become  an  artist,  and  to  take  the  usual 
preparatory  course  in  Paris.  Thither  he  went,  worked  hard,  and 
enjoyed  life,  partially  supporting  himself  by  journalism. 

In  1836  he  became  the  Paris  correspondent  of  the  Constitu- 
tional, a  radical  paper.  Although  his  salary  was  small,  he  supposed 
he  had  at  last  obtained  regular  employment.  On 
the  twentieth  of  August  of  this  year  he  was  married 
at  Paris  to  Miss  Isabella  Gethin  Creagh  Shawe,  of  Cork  County, 
Ireland,  to  whom  lie  had  been  engaged  for  a  few  months.  His 
courage  in  taking  this  step  may  be  estimated  by  noting  that  the 
marriage  took  place  nearly  a  month  before  the  first  number  of  the 
Constitutional  appeared,  and  that  the  bridegroom's  salar}-  was  to  be 
only  about  forty  dollars  a  week.  In  less  than  a  year,  the  Constitu- 
tional went  under,  and  in  1837  Thackeray  was  once  more  struggling 
forali'/ing  in  London.     He  did  all  kinds  of  work.     On  the  third  of 


6  INTRODUCTION 

August,  his  review  of  Carlyle's  French  Revolution  appeared  in  the 
London  Times,  and  it  is  interesting  to  compare  the  language  of  this 
review  with  the  waj^  in  which  the  novelist  speaks  of  the  great 
Scotsman  in  the  Virginians.  The  book  had  been  out  only  two 
months,  and  Thackeray,  like  many  others,  had  not  overcome  his 
bewilderment  at  the  strange  style  of  the  new  writer.  Still,  the 
review  was  distinct h'  favorable,  and  in  places  enthusiastic. 

The  following  passage,  characteristic  of  Thackeray,  must  have 
pleased  Carlyle: 

The  reader  will  see  in  the  above  extracts  most  of  the  faults 
and  a  few  of  tlie  merits,  of  this  book.  ^  He  need  not  be  told 
tliat  it  is  written  in  an  eccentric  prose,  here  and  there  disfigured 
by  grotesque  conceits  and  images;  but.  for  all  this,  it  betrays 
most  extraordinary  powers, — learning,  observation,  and  humour. 
Above  all.  it  has  no  cant.  .  .  .  Clev^er  critics  .  .  .  cried  down  Mr. 
Carlyle"s  history,  opening  upon  it  a  hundred  little  piddling  sluices 
of  small  wit,  destined  to  wash  the  book  sheer  away;  and  lo!  the 
book  remains,  it  is  only  the  poor  wit  which  has  run  dry. 

Carlyle  remarked,  after  reading  the  review,  that  the  author  was 
"one  Thackeray,  a  half-monstrous  Cornish  giant,  kind  of  painter, 
Cambridge  man,  and  Paris  newspaper  correspondent,  who  is  now 
writing  for  his  life  in  London." 

Besides  reviewing,  he  wrote  many  things  for  Fraser's  Magazine, 
some  of  which,  like  the  Yelloir-Plush  Correspondence,  belong  among 
his  more  enduring  works.  This  Correspondence  enjoys  the  distinction 
of  being  the  first  publication  of  Thackeray's  in  book  form,  and 
curiously  enough,  the  first  edition  came  from  the  press  of  an  Ameri- 
can firm,  Messrs.  Carey  and  Hart,  of  Philadelphia.  Two  years  before 
(1836)  Thackeray  had  published  at  London  and  Paris,  Flore  et 
Zephyr,  but  this  was  merely  a  set  of  drawings. 

For  a  few  short  years,  Thackeray's  marriage  resulted  in  undis- 
turbed happiness,  but  in  1840  came  the  great  tragedy  of  his  life. 
After  the  birth  of  her  third  daughter,  his  wife 
became  ill,  and  steadily  grew  worse,  suffering  from 
a  singular  disease  of  the  brain,  a  malady  that  convinced  "the  great 
assay  of  art."'  By  1842  she  was  in  a  hopeless  condition,  and  had  at 
last  to  be  placed  in  charge,   her  mental   powers   having   entirely 


LIFE  OF  THACKERAY  7 

vanished.     Tliis  unspeakable  calamity  Thackeray  endured  with  the 

highest  courage  and  nobility,   though  of  course  it  destroyed  the 

possibility  of  home  life  and  domestic  happiness.     His  two  daughters 

— one  had  died  in  infancy — went  to  live  with  their  grandparents  in 

Paris;  and  with  the  unfortunate  vitality  of  those  whose  lives  are 

worse  than  worthless,  his  wife  survived  her  reason  fifty  years.     Her 

death  in  1892  was  a  strange  shock  to  the  world,  as  it  brought  np  so 

vividly  memories  of  her  great  husband.     Nobler  words  have  never 

issued  from  a  suffering  man  than  those  which,  in  1852,  Thackeray 

wrote  to  a  friend:  "Though  my  marriage  was  a  wreck,  I  would  do 

it  over  again,  for  behold  love  is  the  crown  and  completion  of  all 

earthly  good." 

In  1841  he  wrote  portions  of   Vault u  Fair,  and  the  next  year 

saw  the  first  of  his  contributions  to  Punch,  which  was  only  eleven 

months  old.     Before  long  he  became  one  of  its  most 

Success  in      important  and  valuable  contributors,  and  a  volume 
Literature. 

might    be    written    on    his    connection    with    this 

famous  sheet.  Here  he  had  the  opportunity  to  indulge  himself 
in  one  of  his  greatest  amusements,  the  double  employment  of  pen 
and  pencil,  and  his  genius  for  pure  fun  had  a  steady  outlet.  Punch 
printed  nearly  four  hundred  sketches  by  Thackeray;  the  Snob 
Papers  brought  him  for  the  first  time  a  wide  circle  of  readers,  and 
his  reputation  increased  apace.  His  literary  success  showed  itself 
financially;  in  1846  he  took  a  house,  and  fulfilled  one  of  his  dearest 
wishes  by  having  his  children  live  with  him.  Better  than  creature 
comforts,  he  was  now  in  a  position  where  he  could  write  real  liter- 
ature, and  satisfy  an  ambition  which  had  steadily  grown  into  a  life 
purpose.  In  January  1847,  the  first  installment  of  Vanity  Fair 
appeared ;  and  before  the  publication  of  the  last  number  in  July 
1848,  Thackeray's  place  among  English  novelists  was  assured. 

In  1851,  Thackeray  delivered,  with  marked  success,  his  lec- 
tures on  the  English  Humourists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  "On 
October  30,  1852,  he  sailed  for  Boston,  touching  at  Halifax  on  the 
way,  and  began  his  American  tour.  Two  other  distinguishe  1  men 
of  letters  were  his  shipmates,  James  Russell  Lowell,  and  the  poet 


8  INTRODUCTION 

Clough.    We  can  easily  imagine  how  intimate  the  three  must  have 

become  during  the  long  voyage.    Thackeray's  success  in  the  United 

States  was  so  pronounced  that  in  1855  he  came  again,  and  delivered 

for  the  first  time  his  lectures  on  the  Four  Georges, 

Lectures.  ,  .    ,  t  .    n         »  .  . 

which  were  prepared  especially  for  American 
consumption,  though  i\\Qj  were  afterwards  repeated  in  Great 
Britain.  He  became  acquainted  with  nearly  all  of  our  literary 
men,  to  one  of  whom  he  paid  a  splendid  compliment  in  the  opening 
paragraph  of  the  Virginians.  He  learned  to  know  America  better 
than  most  Englishmen  have  known  it  before  or  since,  for  he  spoke 
in  Boston,  Savannah,  and  St.  Louis,  and  in  many  towns  included 
in  that  vast  triangle.  He  understood  and  sympathized  with  the 
sentiments  of  both  North  and  South,  and  though  he  was  naturally 
homesick  at  times,  he  immensely  enjoyed  his  travels  and  appre- 
ciated the  kindness  with  which  he  was  everywhere  received. 
Dickens  had  aroused  the  anger  of  the  whole  nation  by  the  way  he 
had  recorded  his  impressions  after  reaching  home,  and  those  wlio 
looked  for  a  similar  result  from  Thackeray's  visit  were  agreeably 
disappointed.  A  writer  in  Putnam  s  Magazine  remarked,  "He  cer- 
tainly knit  more  closely  our  sympathy  with  Englishmen."  The 
people  who  packed  the  halls  where  he  spoke  naturally  went  to  see 
the  great  author,  rather  than  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say  about 
Swift  and  Addison.  It  is  curiosity  rather  than  a  zeal  for  knowl- 
edge which  draws  the  crowd.  Still,  in  Thackeray's  case,  those  who 
came  to  see  remained  to  hear,  for  his  eloquent  words,  combined 
with  his  refined  and  unpretentious  manner,  charmed  all  his  lis- 
teners. The  literary  and  financial  results  of  these  lectures  were 
highly  important ;  it  was  his  preparation  for  the  Humourists  that 
caused  and  enabled  him  to  write  his  greatest  book,  Esmond,  and  it 
was  the  composition  of  the  Four  Georges,  with  the  American 
experience  he  gained  by  travelling,  that  gave  birth  to  the  Vir- 
ginians. But  his  real  aim  in  taking  the  platform  was  not  a  literary 
■  one ;  it  was  simply  to  provide  money  for  his  children.  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  remember  that  the  financial  results  exceeded  his  highest 
anticipations. 


LIFE  OF  THACKERAY  9 

Thackeray's  political  career  was  amusingly  brief.  He  came, 
saw,  and  was  conquered.  England  differs  from  the  United  States 
in  nothing  more  than  in  the  qualities  which  cause 
the  nomination  of  a  man  for  a  political  office.  No 
sooner  does  one  achieve  a  literary  reputation  in  England  than  ho 
is  talked  of  for  Parliament,  whereas  in  this  country,  certain  other 
and  quite  different  qualifications  seem  most  necessary  for  a  Con- 
gressional candidacy.  Whatever  may  be  the  merits  of  the  question 
in  general,  Thackeray  himself  was  as  little  fitted  for  a  Parliamentary 
career  as  he  was  for  the  law ;  and  we  all  have  reason  to  rejoice  in 
his  defeat,  which  happened  in  1857,  when  he  stood  as  a  Liberal  for 
the  city  of  Oxford.  Both  before  and  after  the  contest  was  settled, 
he  preserved  his  good  temper  and  an  admirable  courtesy  toward  his 
opponent. 

The  now  famous  Cornhill  Magazine  was  started  in  1860,  with 

Thackeray  as  Editor-in-chief.     His  name  immediately  established 

the  success  of  the  periodical,  giving  it  great  vogue, 

Editor. 

and  making  possible  a  notable  list  of  contributors, 
including  Tennyson.  He  found  the  position,  however,  very  trying 
and  exacting,  and  was'glad  to  relinquish  it  at  the  end  of  two  years 
of  service.  It  necessitated  two  things  which  Thackeray  instinc- 
tively had  always  disliked;  methodical  habits  of  work,  against 
which  his  whole  nature  rebelled,  and  the  infliction  of  pain  on 
worthy  persons  by  refusing  their  contributions.  He  was  forced 
once  or  twice  to  decline  articles  signed  by  names  of  high  commer- 
cial value,  one  by  Anthony  Trollope  and  one  by  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning,  the  latter  (mirabile  dictu)  on  the  ground  of  its  indeli- 
cacy !  Trollope  said  Thackeray  was  not  a  good  editor ;  a  natural 
complaint  by  the  man  of  Method  against  the  man  of  Inspiration. 
It  is  difficvilt  to  find  a  better  comparison  of  the  results  of  Industry 
and  the  results  of  Genius,  than  is  afforded  by  the  novels  of  Trollope 
when  placed  alongside  the  novels  of  Thackeray. 

In  August  1901,  the  Cornhill  Magazine  printed  its  five-hun- 
dredth number,  and,  after  quoting  Thackeray's  words,  "On  our 
first  day  out,  I  asked  leave  to  speak  for  myself,  whom  I  regarded  as 


10  INTRODUCTION 

the  captain  of  a  great  ship,"  Mr.   Austin  Dobson  celebrated  the 
occasion  with  a  ^OEdeau,  the  first  part  of  which  runs  as  follows: 

For  two-score  years  the  tumbling  spray 
Has  fallen  from  our  bows  away; — 
What  change  of  skij)per  and  of  crew, 
Since  first  the  Cornhill  sailed  the  blue, 
Grain-laden,  Master,  Thackeray! 

On  the  night  of  December  23,  1803,  Thackeray  felt  ill,  and  went 
to  his  room  early.     The  next  morning,  he  was  found  dead  in  his 

bed.     On   the   thirtieth,    he   was   buried  at  Kensal 

Green,  in  which  cemetery,  his  mother,  who  died  the 
next  year,  also  rests.  Two  daughters  survived  him;  the  elder, 
Anne  Isabella,  is  now  the  well-known  writer,  Mrs.  Ritchie;  the 
younger  became  the  wife  of  the  famous  critic,  Leslie  Stephen,  and 
died  in  18T5.  A  bust  of  the  great  novelist,  erected  by  subscription, 
stands  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Thackeray's  personal  appearance  was  distinguished  and  impres 
sive,  in  spite  of  his  broken  nose.    lie  stood  considerably  over  six  feet 

high,  and  his  head  was  so  large  that  when  a  child 

Appearance     ^^®  could  wear  his  uncle's  hat.     During  his  last  years 

and  Character,  hig  black  hair  turned  perfectly  white,  and  his  face 

had  a  dignified  and  aristocratic  expression,  to 
which  his  many  portraits  bear  witness.  In  character,  it  is  not 
stretching  the  truth  to  say  that  he  was  one  of  the  best  men  of  the 
age.  His  enemies  started  and  repeated  the  now  familiar  accusa- 
tion of  snobbery,  but  those  who  knew  him  well  have  given  the 
most  convincing  testimony  to  the  contrary.  Nor  do  we  need  their 
advocacy  to  learn  the  truth;  the  real  man  appears  most  sincerely 
in  his  life-svork,  his  printed  books.  The  two  great  qualities  of 
Sympathy  and  Enthusiasm,  which  made  up  so  large  a  part  of  his 
nature,  are  simply  incompatible  with  Snobbery  and  Cynicism. 
Nay,  his  sympathy  for  humanity  so  biased  his  judgment  that 
he  was  unable  fairly  to  appreciate  the  character  of  the  great 
satirist,  Jonathan  Swift.  He  has  been  charged  with  a  lack  of 
moral  earnestness;  but  in  reality  he  looked  at  everything  from  the 
moral  point  of  view,  often  to  the  detriment  of  his  art.     His  unfail- 


LIFE  OF  THACKERAY  11 

ing  kindness  and  unlimited  generosity  made  him  one  of  the  most 
lovable  men  in  the  history  of  English  Literature;  and  the  way  he 
spoke  of  his  contemporaries  may  be  learned  b}-  two  passages  which 
are  worth  quoting.  At  the  end  of  a  lecture  called  Charity  and 
Humour,  first  delivered  before  a  New  York  audience,  he  discussed 
at  length  the  works  of  his  great  rival,  Dickens,  closing  as  follows: 

I  may  quarrel  with  Mr.  Dickens's  art  a  thousand  and  a  thousand 
times.  I  delight  and  wonder  at  his  genius ;  I  recognise  in  it — I  speak 
with  awe  and  reverence — a  commission  from  that  Divine  Bene- 
ficence, whose  blessed  task  we  know  it  will  one  day  be  to  wipe 
every  tear  from  every  eye.  Thankfully  I  take  my  share  of  the 
feast  of  love  and  kindness  which  this  gentle,  and  generous,  and 
charitable  soul  has  contributed  to  the  happiness  of  the  world. 

And  of  Thomas  Carlyle's  forthcoming  Frederick  the  Great,  he  said, 
in  the  opening  words  of  the  sixty-second  chapter  of  the  Virginians: 

These  prodigious  actions  will  presently  be  related  in  other 
volumes,  wiiich  I  and  all  the  world  are  eager  to  behold.  Would 
you  have  this  history  compete  with  yonder  book?  Could  my  jaunty 
yellow  park-phaeton  run  counter  to  that  grim  chariot  of  thunder- 
ing war?  Could  my  meek  little  jog-trot  Pegasus  meet  the  shock  of 
yon  steed  of  foaming  bit  and  flaming  nostril?  Dear  kind  reader 
(with  whom  I  love  to  talk  from  time  to  time,  stepping  down  from 
the  stage  where  our  figures  are  performing,  attired  in  the  habits  and 
using  the  parlance  of  past  ages), — my  kind  patient  reader!  it  is  a 
mercy  for  both  of  us  that  Harry  Warrington  did  not  follow  the 
King  of  the  Borussians,  as  he  was  minded  to  do,  for  then  I  should 
have  had  to  describe  battles  which  Carlyle  is  going  to  paint:  and  I 
don't  wish  you  should  make  odious  comparisons  between  me  and 
that  master. 

Two  pages  later  in  the  same  book  Thackeray  gives  us  an  excel- 
lent description  of  himself  in  the  language  used  by  Theo  in  describ- 
ing George : 

Indeed.  Mr.  George  has  a  lofty  way  with  him,  which"!  don't 
see  in  other  people;  and  in  reading  books,  I  find  he  cliooses  the  fine 
noble  things  always,  and  loves  them  in  spite  of  all  his  satire.  He 
certainly  is  of  a  satirical  turn,  but  then  he  is  only  bitter  against 
mean  things  and  people.  No  gentleman  hath  a  more  tender  heart, 
I  am  sure;  and  but  yesterday,  after  he  had  been  talking  so  bitterly 
as  you  said,  I  happened  to  look  out  of  window,  and  saw  him  stop 
and  treat  a  whole  crowd  of  little  children  to  apples  at  the  stall  at 
the  corner. 

Thackeray's  religious  belief  cannot  be  stated  in  tenns  of  exact 
dosma,  for  he  could  not  so  state  it  hijnself ;  but  he  believed  in  God, 


12  INTRODUCTION 

and  tried  to  keep  his  commandments.     In  a  letter  to  his  daughter, 
he  said : 

To  my  mind,  scripture  only  means  a  writing,  and  Bible  means 
a  book.  It  contains  Divine  truths  and  the  history  of  a  Divine 
Character ;  but  imperfect,  but  not  containing  a  thousandth  part  of 
Him ;  and  it  would  be  an  untruth  before  God  were  I  to  hide  my 
feelings  from  my  dearest  children ;  as  it  would  be  a  sin  if,  having 
other  opinions,  and  believing  literallj'  in  the  Mosaic  writings,  in 
the  six  days'  cosmogony,  in  the  serpent  and  apple  and  consequent 
damnation  of  the  human  race.  I  should  hide  them,  and  not  try  to 
make  those  I  loved  best  adopt  opinions  of  such  immense  impor- 
tance to  them.  And  so  God  bless  mj'  darlings  and  teach  us  the 
truth. 

Everj^  one  of  us  in  every  fact,  book,  circramstance  of  life 
.sees  a  different  meaning  and  moral,  and  so  it  must  be  about  religion. 
But  we  can  all  love  eacli  other  and  say,  "Our  Father." 

Thackeray  prayed  well  because  he  loved  well,  and  after  he  was 
gone  many  of  those  whom  he  had  secretly  helped  by  word  and  deed 
regarded  the  things  he  had  done  in  the  body  as 

such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love. 


II 

WORKS 

The  complete  works  of  Thackeray,  in  the  latest  and  best  edition, 
ftill  thirteen  fat  volumes.  The  majority  of  these  are  novels; 
'the  remainder  consist  of  a  large  variety  of  literary  work— poems, 
essays,  notes  of  travel,  humorous  sketches,  book  reviews,  personal 
essays,  and  lectures.  Although  Thackeray  has  absolutely  no  claim 
to  be  ranked  among  tlie  English  poets,  he  vv-as  certainly  a  clever 
writer  of  verses;  and  some  of  his  rimed  pieces,  notably  the 
popular  Wliite  Squall,  are  done  with  great  .spirit.  His  sketches 
and  personal  essays  are  simply  charming.  Like  Stevenson, 
Thackeray  was  very  fond  of  the  open  fire  and  easy-chair  style  of 
writing,  where  author  and  reader  draw  close  together  and  discuss 
the  humors,  sorrows,  and  foibles  of  the  world  in  a  delightfully  con- 


WORKS  OF  THACKERAY  13 

fidential  manner.  Thackeray  has  a  way  of  putting  the  reader 
entirely  at  his  ease,  cheating  him  into  the  belief  that  he  is  indulging 
in  an  actual  conversation  with  the  great  man,  instead  of  merely 
reading  cold  type.  Whether  the  topic  of  these  entertaining  dis- 
courses be  grave  or  gay,  the  touch  is  wonderfully  light  and  dex- 
terous, without  ever  becoming  puerile.  They  always  leave  the 
impression  of  a  spacious  mind  and  a  large  personality. 

Thackeray's  title  to  fame,   however,   rests  on  his  long  novels^ 
and  if  there  were  any  way  of  getting  at  an  intelligent  consensus  of 

opinion,    it   is    not   improbable   that   he   would    b© 
The  Novels,     declared  the  greatest  of  alJLEnglish  novelists.     He 

has  never  had  so  wide  a^  circle  of  readers  as  his  great 
contemporary,  Dickens ;  and  not  one  of  his  books  ever  created  the 
sensation  aroused  by  Tlie  Pickivick  Papers  and  Nicholas  Nickleby. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  has  never  received  the  hostile  criticism  that 
much  of  Dickens's  work  receives  to-day,  nor  would  any  person 
have  the  audacity  to  say  that  it  is  possible  to  outgrow  Thackeray. 
At  its  best,  his  art  is  impeccable  and  he  appeals  to  his  readers  in 
a  thousand  different  w^ays.  V^hQn^Vanity  Fair  was  coming  out, 
Mrs.  Carlyle  wrote  to  her  husband,  "He  beats  Dickens  out  of  the 
world."  Every  intelligent  reader  recognised  at  once  the  immense 
£aiver  of  this  extraordinary  book,  with  its  wgalth„of  characters,  its 
keen  humor  and  true  pathos,  its  passages  of  noble  eloquence,  and 
the  marvellous  skill  shown  in  its  satirical  pictures  of  society.  After 
Vanity  Fair  came  J^eiidennis,  the  mere  mention  of  which  inevita- 
bly calls  up  the  pleasant  hours  spent  in  its  perusal.  This  novel,  like 
most  of  Thackeray's,  appeared  in  monthly  numbers,  beginning  in 
November  1848,  and  ending  in  December  1850.  This  method  of  pub- 
lication kept  the  interest  of  readers  at  a  tension,  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  does  the  modern  custom  of  printing  a  long  story  in  the  pages 
of  a  monthly  magazine.  Each  issue  is  eagerly  awaited  by  thousands 
of  niipatient  people,  and  the  novel  is  a  constant  and  fruitful  source 
for  discussion  as  it  proceeds  on  its  leisurely  way.  Pendennis  has 
an  especial  interest,  because  Thackeray  put  into  its  pages  so  much 
of  his  own  life — both  the  life  of  experience  and  the  life  of  ideas. 


14  INTRODUCTION 

One  feels  in  reading  it,  that  it  does  not  belong  to  fiction,  but  rather 
to  biography  and  history,  the  sense  of  reality  is  so  strong.  In  1853 
Esmond  was  published,  and  in  October  1853,  the  first  number  of 
Tlie  NeivcoiBfS  appeared,  its  publication  being  continued  in  monthly 
numbers,  until  August  1855.  Although  this  novel  was  written  in 
his  natural  vein,  dealt  with  phases  of  life  that  he  thoroughly  under- 
stood, and  included  only  material  that  he  had  stored  up  and  had 
ready  for  use,  it  on  the  whole  lacks  inspiration  and  seems  to  have 
been  written  for  cash  rather  than  for  love.  At  the  beginning  of  its 
composition,  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "I  am  about  a  new  story,  but 
don't  know  as  yet  if  it  will  be  any  good.  It  seems  to  me  I  am  too 
old  for  story-telling;  but  I  want  money,  and  shall  get  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  for  this,  of  which  (D.  V.)  I'll  keep  fifteen.*'  There  are 
many  places  in  this  book  where  its  author  seems  to  have  gone  stale, 
and  did  it  not  contain  the  one  immortal  character  of  Colonel 
Newcome,  it  would  have  to  be  ranked  as  distinctly  inferior  to  Tliack- 
eray's  other  work  in  fiction.  It  lacks  the  vitality  of  Vanity  Fair, 
the  freshness  and  sparkle  of  Esmond,  and  the  warm  humanity  of 
Pend£nnis. 

As  stated,  Thackeray's  studies  in  preparation  for  the  lec- 
tures on  the  Four  Georges,  and  his  travels  in  America,  gave  him 
the  material  and  the  spur  for  the  composition  of  TlieSFirginians, 
which  appeared  in  monthly  numbers  extending  from  November 
1857,  to  October  1859.  This  book  was  in  the  nature  of  a  sequel  to 
Esmond,  containing  the  history  of  the  same  family  two  generations 
farther  along.  It  is  about  twice  as  long  as  Esmond,  but  by  no 
means  twice  as  good.  Delightfully  entertaining  as  it  is,  and  valu- 
able as  are  its  pictures  of  eighteenth  century  life  and  customs,  it 
impresses  one  as  spun  out  in  the  middle  and  hurried  up  at  the  end. 
Curiously  enough,  as  George  Warrington  insisted  that  his  brother 
Harry  was  a  far  more  interesting  character  than  himself,  it  is  cer- 
tainly true  that  the  first  part  of  the  story,  which  deals  with  the 
adventures  of  Harry,  liolds  one's  attention  much  closer  than  the 
second  part,  which  narrates  the  experiences  of  George.  Yet,  with 
Di'ite evident  faults.  The^Yirginians  is  a  great  book;  to  appreciate 


WORKS  OF  THACKERAY  15 

how  great,   one  has  only  to  compare  it  with  its  feeble  imitation, 
Richard  Cai^el. 

No  one  wlio  has  ever  read  Tom  Jones  or  Joseph  Andrews  would 
need  Thackeray's  own  testimony  to  be  convinced  of  the  great  debt 

owed  by  the  man  of  1850  to  the  man  of  1750.  Thack- 

Fieidin?  and    gray's    master    was    undoubtedly    Henry   Fielding. 

Thackeray.     We   do  not  mean  that  Fielding   is  responsible  for 

Thackeray's  novels;  still  less  do  we  mean  that 
Thackeray  imitated  Fielding,  for  he  was  never  under  the  necessity 
of  imitating  anybody.  But  it  does  seem  true  to  say  that  Field- 
ing inspired  Thackeray,  and  that  the  later  novelist  in  a  large 
measure  learned  his  art  at  the  feet  of  the  earlier.  The  lives  of  the 
two  men  were  different  to  the  outward  view,  for  Thackeray  was  a 
respectable  citizen  and  Fielding  was  not ;  yet  in  temperament,  in 
the  hatred  of  hypocrisy  and  falsehood,  in  the  desire  to  represent 
human  nature  as  it  is,  and  above  all,  in  the  point  of  view,  in  the 
way  in  which  the  human  comedy  presented  itself  to  them,  the  two 
men  are  very  much  alike.  Fielding's  coarseness  is  partly  the  fault 
of  his  age,  partly  the  excrescence  of  his  astonishing  vigor,  and 
partly  a  species  or  bravado,  like  that  of  Gautier;  but  leaving  out 
objectionable  passages,  the  resemblances  between  Tom  Jones  and 
Pendennis  are  striking  and  significant.  Thackeray  owed  much  of 
his  skill  to  his  prolonged  and  intelligent  stud}-  of  Fielding,  and  the 
greater  range  and  depth  of  his  nature  enabled  him  to  write  books 
of  even  richer  content  than  those  of  his  predecessor. 

It  is  rather  curious  that  a  writer  like  Thackeray,  who  exhibited 

such  gifts  in  the  production  of  caricature  and  burlesque,  should 

have  excelled  also  in  writing  that  form  of  fiction 

Master  of  both  known  as  the  historical  romance.     The  author  of 

Satire  and 

Komance.       ^'^®  contributions  to  Piuich  was  the  natural  author 
of   Vaniti/  Fair;  but  Esmond  and   The   Virginians 
belong  to  a  totally  different  kind  of  litei'ature.     The  touch  of  bur- 
lesque is  ordinarily  fatal  to  romance ;  for  tha  romantic  writer  must 


16  INTRODUCTION 

take  his  heroes  and  heroines  seriously.  In  our  own  day,  the  clever 
author  of  the  Dolly  Dialogues  finds  it  difficult  to  convince  his  readers, 
at  least  the  more  thoughtful  among  them,  of  the  sincerity  of  his 
romances;  even  in  the  wildest  adventures  and  the  most  senti- 
mental language  of  the  characters  in  the  Prisoner  of  Zenda,  one 
suspects  that  the  author  is  laughing  in  his  sleeve.  No  such  sus- 
picion ever  enters  the  mind  of  Thackeray's  readers.  That  a  gifted 
j  writer  can  succeed  both  in  historical  romances  and  in  realistic 
;■  novels  has  been  repeatedly  made  evident ;  a  striking  illustration  of 
the  fact  may  be  seen  at  this  moment  in  the  works  of  Sienkiewicz, 
who  has  written  with  apparently  equal  ease  Tlie  Deluge  and  With- 
out Dogma;  but  that  the  greatest  satirist  of  his  age  should  have 
written  the  noblest  historical  romance  in  the  language — this  is 
truly  a  matter  for  wonder,  and  shows  the  immense  range  of  the 
man's  genius. 

Thackeray  was  undoubtedly  a  great  artist;  yet  to  many  of  ua 

to-day,  most  ofl^liis  novels  are  marred  by  the  constant  introduction 

of  soliloquies,  reflective  philosophising,  and   down- 

*?  t'^*^'*    right  preaching  by  the  author]  just  as  the  artistic 

value  of  the  novels  of  Dickens  is  lessened  by  the 

•author's  habit  of  making  stump  speeches.     It  is  true  that  Thackeray 

'is  sometimes  at  his  very  best  when  he  stops  the  flow  of  the  narrative 

and  takes  the  reader  into  his  confidence;  yet,  while  some  of  these 

little  sermons  add  to  our  appreciation  of  the  man,  they  subtract 

something  from  the  artistic  beauty  of  his  work.     Every  novel,  as 

:  Thomas  Hardy  has  remarked,  should  be  an  artistic  whole,  a  living 

*  organism;  we  should  enjoy  its  unity  and  symmetry  very  much  as 

we  enjoy  the  outline  of  a  perfect  statue.     Eyerytliing  that  does  not 

contribute  to  the  evolution  of  the  story  is  therefore  an  excrescence. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  we  rank  Turgenev,  as  an  artist,  higher 

than  Tolstoi.     The  latter  is  more  comprehensive  in  his  view  of  life, 

and  his  novels  contain  a  larger  accumulation  of  intellectual  riches : 

but  he  crams  his  stories  with  matter,  some  of  which  would  more 

properly   belong  in  a    philosophical    trreatise,    some   in   a   sermon 

from  the  pulpit,  some  in  a  literary  essay,  and  some  in  a  newspaper 


WORKS  OF  THACKERAY  17 

editorial,  while  he  occasionally  puts  in  things  that  properly  belong 
nowhere.  We  forgive  him  everything,  because  he  is  a  man  of  gen- 
ius, and  has  taught  us  so  much ;  but  we  cannot  be  blind  to  gross 
offenses  against  art,  and  even  while  admitting  that  Anna  Karenina 
is  a  more  valuable  book  than  anything  written  by  Turgenev,  we 
cannot  help  seeing  how  slovenly  is  its  construction  when  we  com- 
pare it  with  Fathers  and  Children,  or  Rudin. 

And  after  all,  returning  to  the  consideration  of  Thackeray's 
novels,  what  are  the  passages  that  we  remember  the  most  vividly? 
Are  they  his  sentimental  soliloquies  on  youthful  love,  or  are  they 
the  great  dramatic  scenes  that  glow  with  genius?  The  death  of 
George  Osborne  at  Waterloo,  told  in  a  single  line  with  no  moral 
reflection  appended,  is  worth  a  hundred  pages  of  advice  addressed 
to  the  "kind,  patient  reader."  Nay,  it  is  not  only  higher  art,  it  is  of 
surer  moral  value ;  for  when  a  great  genius  represents  with  consum- 
mate art  the  tragedy  and  comedy  of  life  as  they  really  are,  he  can 
safely  leave  their  ethical  significance  to  the  spectator.  Furthermore, 
the  habit  of  preaching  is  a  habit  that  grows  with  tremendous  speed  > 
and  could  Thackeray  ever  have  seen  an  edition  of  Tlie  Virginians  or 
The  Newcomes  with  the  narrative  all  left  out,  he  would  doubtless 
have  been  surprised  at  the  dimensions  of  what  remained.  He 
recognised  his  failing  in  this  direction,  although  liis  confession  was 
not  meant  to  be  taken  as  sincere.  In  one  of  his  most  delightful 
essays,  De  Finibns,  he  said: 

Among  the  sins  of  commission  which  novel-writers  not  seldom 
perpetrate  is  the  sin  of  grandiloquence,  or  tall-talking,  against 
wliioh,  for  my  part,  I  will  offer  up  a  special  libera  me.  This  is  the 
sin  of  schoolmasters,  governesses, critics,  sermoners,  and  instructors 
of  young  or  old  people.  Nay  (for  I  am  making  a  clean  breast,  and 
liberating  my  soul),  perhaps  of  all  the  novel-spinners  now  extant, 
the  present  speaker  is  the  most  addicted  to  preaching.  Does  he 
not  stop  perpetually  in  his  story  and  begin  to  preach  to  you?  When 
he  ought  to  be  engaged  with  business,  is  he  not  forever  taking  the 
Muse  by  the  sleeve  and  plaguing  her  with  some  of  his  cynical  ser- 
mons? I  cry  Peccavi  loudly  and  heartily.  I  tell  you  I  would  like 
to  be  able  to  write  a  story  which  should  show  no  egotism  whatever 
— in  which  there  should  be  no  reflections,  no  cynicism,  no  vulgarity 
(and  so  forth),  but  an  incident  in  every  other  page,  a  villain,  a  bat- 
tle, a  mystery  in  every  chapter.     I  should  like  to  be  able  to  feed  & 


18  INTRODUCTION 

reader  so  spicily  as  to  leave  him  hungering  and  thirsting  for  more 
at  the  end  of  every  monthly  meal. 

In  the  mild  contempt  with  which  Tliackeray  treats  his  readers 
in  this  last  sentence,  he  seems  to  mistake  the  real  natm-e  of  the 
charge  to  which  he  playfully  cries  Peccavi.  We  do  not  object  to 
his  commentaries  because  they  interrupt  an  exciting  scene ;  we  do 
not,  unless,  to  borrow  Professor  Moulton's  expression,  we  are  read- 
ing the  story  with  only  our  sporting  interest  aroused,  just  to  see 
how  it  is  going  to  end.  There  are,  indeed,  many  authors  who 
delight  in  thus  torturing  a 'reader,  until  the  victim  can  only  say, 
"Leave  your  damnable  faces  and  begin."  We  object  to  Thack- 
eray's sermonising  because  it  destroys  the  artistic  contour  of  his 
novels,  and  makes  a  blemish  where  we  should  prefer  to  see  no  flaw. 
Perhaps  its  preaching  is  simply  the  result  of  his  English  blood;  for 
most  English  writers  and  readers  cannot  bear  to  let  a  work  of  art 
carry  its  own  lesson,  like  the  lilies  of  the  field ;  they  must  forsooth 
bespatter  it  with  moral  mottoes,  even  as  the  walking  delegates  of 
religion  befoul  the  fair  face  of  nature  with  signposts  of  damnation. 

But  apart  from  this  fault,  there  is  little  to  blame,  and  countless 
things  to  praise,  in  Thackeray's  art  as  a  novelist.  There  is  a  charm 
about -his  style  that  age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale.  To  have 
read  any  one  of  his  books  is  to  have  gained  valuable  additions 
to  the  circle  of  our  literary  acquaintances,  and  to  have  seen  our 
common  life  illumined  and  made  significant  by  the  touch  of  a  mas- 
ter. When  we  read  any  one  of  the  innumerable  scenes  of  jo}"  and 
grief  and  passion  that  crowd  his  pages,  we  feel  like  repeating  his 
own  irrepressible  shout — "That's  Gejiius!"' 

Taking  everything  into  consideration,  it  seems  as  if  the  highest 

place   among   Englisii  .aavelists   will    eventually   be    assigned    to 

Thackeray.     In  the  history  of  British  fiction,  there 

lUaoI^amJng   ^^'^  ^nly  eight  writers  whom  we  can  unhesitatingly 

EneriJsh        place  in  the  front  rank:  Defoe,  Richardson,  Fielding, 

Scott,  Jane  Austen,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  George 

Eliot.     In  comparing  Thackeray  with  these  great  rivals,  one  should 

consider  the  amount,  variety,  and  excellence  of  the  work  produced. 


ES2I0XD  19 

the  number  of  great  characters  created,  the  skill  shown  in  the  con- 
struction of  plots,  the  purity  and  beauty  of  the  prose  style,  and  the 
intellectual  value  of  the  sentiments,  observations,  and  ideas.  Sur- 
veying the  held  in  an  unprejudiced  manner,  it  will  be  found  diffi- 
cult to  place  any  novelist  in  this  list  above  Thackeray. 

Ill 

ESMOND 

From  a  letter  bj^  Edward  FitzGerald,  we  learn  that  Thackeray 

finished  Esmond  at  the  end  of  May  1852.     "Thackeray  I  saw  for  ten 

minutes;    he  was  just  in  the  agony  of  finishing  a 

Origin  and     ^Qygi   which  lias  arisen  out  of  the  reading  necessary 

Publication.  ^  '' 

for  his  lectures,  and  relates  to  those  times — of 
Queen  Anne,  I  mean.  He  will  get  £1,000  for  his  novel;  he  was 
wanting  to  finish  it  and  rush  off  to  the  Continent  to  shake  off  the 
fumes  of  it."  The  composition  of  this  story  occupied  only  a  few 
months,  for  its  author  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  powers,  and  his 
mind  and  heart  were  full  of  the  subject.  Leslie  Stephen  says  that 
the  manuscript  shows  very  few  corrections,  not  nearly  as  many  as 
occur  in  the  earlier  ones.  It  was  published  in  the  autumn  of  1853, 
the  full  title  being  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  Esq.,  a  Colonel 
in  the  service  of  Her  Majesty  Q.  Anne.  Written  by  Himself. 
Unlike  all  his  other  long  novels,  it  did  not  appear  in  numbers,  but 
as  a  single  complete  work.  This  was  the  result  of  a  deliberate 
decision,  for  Thackeray  said  the  book  was  "much  too  grave  and 
sad"  to  come  out  as  a  serial.  The  melancholy  ofjbhe^tory  sfeem.s  to 
have  given  its  author  a  great  deal  of  unneces.sary  trouble,  for  while 
much  of  it  is  in  the  minor  key,  it  is  not  nearly  so  depressing  as 
Vanity  Fair  and  The  Newcomes. 

Thackeray  had  always  been  more  or  less  interested  in  the  liter- 
ature of  the  eighteenth  centuiy,  and  had  read  .'to  advantage  i*iany 
authors  besides  Fielding.  But  he  would  in  all  probability  never 
have  written  Esmond,  had  he  not  been  forced  to  study  tlig_Qu^^ 
Anne    period    thoroughly   in    preparation   for   his    course  of   lee- 


20  INTRODUCTION 

tures  on  the  Engliah  Humourists.  Thackeray  himsv^lf  liaJ  much  in 
common  with  the  wits  of  the  Augustan  age;  the  social  life  of  those 
bygone  days  made  a  powerful  appeal  to  his  imagination ;  he  admired 
immensely  the  writings  of  Congreve  and  Addison,  and  tlie  genius 
of  Pope;  the  greatness  of  Swift  impressed  him  deeply,  though  he 
did  not  like  and  failed  to  understand  the  inan's  character;  for 
Dick  Steele  he  had  the  warmest  sympathy.  It  was  only  natural 
that  out  of  the  materials  he  had  collected,  the  inspiration  should 
have  come  to  recreate  the  men  and  manners  of  the  age  of  Anne  in 
a  historical  romance. 

I        It  is  difficult  to  avoid  superlatives  in  talking  about  Esmond.     It 
seems  to  be  not  only  the  best  book  Thackeray  ever  wrote,  but  the 
best  historical   romance  in  the  English  language. 
His  Master-    jn^jg^^j    many  intelligent  critics  regard  it  as  the 

piece.  ^  o  o 

finest  work  of  fiction  ever  written  b}^  an  English- 
man. It  is  better  than  Thackeray's  other  books,  because  the  noble 
style  is  so  splendidly  sustained;  because  the  characters  are  so 
impossible  to  forget ;  and  beca  use  it  is  so  perfect  a  work  of  art, 
^ being  fortunately  free  from  the  eternal  preaching  and  sentimental 
footnotes  that  mar  the  text  of  his  other  books.  Its  artistic  perfection 
may  be  partially  accounted  for  by  the  following  reasons:  the  story 
is  told  in  the  first  person,  a  method  that  adds  vividness  to  the 
narrative ;  again,  as  the  hero,  and  not  the  author  is  talking,  Thack- 
eray was  compelled  to  oixut  the  introduction  of  his  own  philosophy 
of  life ;  the  publication  in  book  form  necessitated  greaterjinity  and 
coherence ;  and  the  small  size  of  the  work,  when  compared  with 
his  other  famous  novels,  was  a  distinct  gain  in  the  same  direction, 
for  novelists,  like  petitioners,  are  not  heard  for  their  much  speaking. 
At  the  dawn  of  the  twentieth  century,  the  most  conspicuous 
object  on  the  horizon  of  fiction  is  the  historical  romance.  The 
reaction  against  the  realism  of  the  earl}-  eighties;^ 
A'Historioai    combined  with  the  powerful  influence  and  notable 

Kuiiiance. 

example  of  Stevenson,  have  together  wrought  a 
completet^'hange  in  literary  fashions.  A  large  majority  of  the 
stories  that  fill  the  bookshops  in  1901  are  romances,  the  scenes  of 

( 


ESMOND 

which  are  laid  in  bygone  times.  Although  many  of  these  sell  and 
circulate  by  the  hundred  thousand,  most  of  them  are  absolutely 
void  of  literary  value.  Their  setting  is  grossly  inaccurate,  their 
characters  resemble  nothing  human,  and  their  style  is  totally  lack- 
ing in  distinction.  ;  Among  such  books,  Esmond  is  a  giant  sur- 
rounded by  pigmies.  The  causes  are  not  far  to  seek.  pTn  the  first  . 
place,  Thackeray  not  only  studied  the  period  lie  selected  with  the  | 
utmost  assiduity,  but  by  his  sympathetic  imagination  he  gave 
the  Y^r2;_a^„and^Jb_Qdx  jof  J>hat  time_^^  In 

one  of  his  letters  he  said  that  the  eighteenth  century  occupied 
him  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  the  nineteenth.  By  extensive 
reading_in_Sa:iit  .and.  Addi^on^jie^  caught  the,  trick... _Ql.±h©WM 
style;  Henry  Esmond  speaks  and  writes  Qugen.  Amie.  English. 
But  it  is  not  simply  that  the  details  of  his  work  are  so  good; 
it  is  the  spirit  that  quickeneth,  and  it  is  the_spirit  that  makes  this 
wonderful  romance  so_Jull_of  life.  Thackeray  had  something  of 
Ben  Jonson's  accuracy  and  •  something  of  Shakspere's  vitality', 
and  ^e  scenes  of^,,£'si?io?M., are  drawn  vyitli  the  same  conscientious 
carejexhibited  in  the  tragedy  of  Catiline,  while  the  persons  live  and 
move  and  have  tlieir  being  like  the  characters  in  Julius  Caesar. 
Hampshire  and  Kensington  were  familiar  ground  to  the  last  inch ; 
and  in  the  author's  imagination,  they  were  full  of  memories  of 
Laily  Castlewood,  Beatrix,  Frank,  and  Henry.  .  As  often  happens  in 
the  historical  romance,  the  historical  characters  are  not  nearly  so 
convincing  as  the  fictitious  ones.  In  the  portraits  of  Swift,  and  \ 
Steele,  and  Marlborough,  we  find  much  to  blame;  but  who  can  ever 
forget  the  strong  men  and  the  lovely  women  who  are  wliolly  tlie 
creations  of  Thackeray's  genius?  No  novelist  ever  created  \\  wonisiip 
more  truly  womanly  in  \un-  tojuli-;  nf-s^,  murt'  •■--cut iai'y  ]iii!^.lft^^ 
Ifcr  lauifs"and"irtues,  and   more  absolutely  irresistible  lh;-M  ' 

Castlewood.  ,i)<t-UK'*-'r"'- 

Certain  scenes  in  this  book  make  an  indelible  i:ni)t^^«'i>A>^1i(-.]i 
the  memory;  as  the  first  meeting  of  the  little  boy  '^\"i.t,^iH?f?wWjV ''''^'^' 
tress:  the  howling  mob  about  the  wheels  of  the  c«fe'^?-'rhVl*i^'eiiiug 
when  Harry  brought  the  small-pox  to  ^^'ist^^'^^^d^'^^e   duel   in 


^2  INTRODUCTION 

Leicester  Field:  the  descent  of  the  staircase  by  Beatrix:  the 
breaking  of  the  swords  before  the  Pretender's  face.  And  through- 
out all  these  wonderful  scenes  the  style  is  always  adequate,  the 
language  always  exactly  what  it  should  be.  »  As  a  specimen  of  a 
narrative  style  that  has  real  distinction,  and  that  makes  a  historical 
romance  truly  great,  we  cannot  forbear  quoting  the  spirited  pas- 
sage where  the  languid  nobleman  unconscioush'  asserts  his  love  for 
his  child: 

The  postilion  had  no  sooner  lashed  the  man  who  would  have 
taken  hold  of  his  horse,  but  a  great  cabbage  came  whirling  like  a 
bombshell  into  the  carriage,  at  which  my  Lord  laughed  more,  for 
it  knocked  my  Lady's  fan  out  of  her  hand  and  plumped  into  Father 
Holt's  stomach.     Then  came  a  shower  of  carrots  and  potatoes. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  be  still!"  saj's  Mr.  Holt:  "we  are  not  ten 
paces  from  the  'Bell'  archway,  where  they  can  shut  the  gates  on 
us,  and  keep  out  this  canaille.'' 

The  little  page  was  outside  the  coach  on  the  step,  and  a  fellow 
in  the  crowd  aimed  a  potato  at  him,  and  hit  him  in  the  eye,  at 
which  the  poor  little  wretch  set  up  a  shout;  the  man  laughed,  a 

great  big  saddler's  apprentice  of  the  town.     "Ah!  you  d httle 

yelling  Popish  bastard,"  lie  said,  and  stooped  to  pickup  another; 
the  crowd  had  gathered  quite  between  the  horses  and  the  inn-door 
by  this  time,  and  the  coach  was  brought  to  a  dead  stand-still.  My 
Lord  jumped  as  briskly  as  a  boy  out  of  the  door  on  his  side  of  the 
coach,  squeezing  little  Harry  behind  it;  had  hold  of  the  potato 
thrower's  collar  in  an  instant,  and  the  next  moment  the  brute's 
heels  were  in  the  air,  and  he  fell  on  the  stones  with  a  thump. 

"You  hulking  coward!"  says  he;  "you  pack  of  screaming 
blackguards!  how  dare  you  attack  children,  and  insult  women? 
Fling  another  shot  at  that  carriage,  you  sneaking  pigskin  cobbler, 
and  by  the  Lord  I'll  send  my  rapier  through  you!" 

Some  of  the  mob  cried,  "Huzzah,  my  Lord!"  for  they  knew 
him,  and  the  saddler's  man  was  a  known  bruiser,  near  twice  as 
big  as  ray  Lord  Viscount. 

"Make  way  there,"  says  he  (he  spoke  in  a  high  shrill  voice,  but 

^vjk^ith  a  great  air  of  authority).     "Make  way,  and  let  her  Ladyship's 

i^Pte.n-iage  pass."    The  men  that  were  between  the  coach  and   the 

r  rfate  of  the  "Bell''  actually  did  make  way,  and  the  horses  went  in. 

i     iftVfiOrd  walking  after  them  with  his  hat  on  his  head. 

-  f,,  ^ihe  WHS  just  going  in  at  the  gate,  through  which  the  coach 
Hfcl.^Pb.  rolled,  another  cry  begins  of  "No  Popery— no  Papists!" 
My-Lor(n:r.rns  round  and  faces  them  once  more. 
\riiiGf(o,'^.^y<'  the  King!"  says  he  at  the  highest  pitch  of  his  voice. 

'■\Vw]TffelFeY'4'>nse   tlie  King's  religion?     You,  you  d d  psalni- 

siiigW§*^Ht^^lW,'  as  sure  asl'in  a  magistrate  of  this  county,  I'll  com- 
mit v<'^:^',riTUl'i$eliow  shrank  back,  and  my  Lord  retreated  with 
all  the  i'Ott[3lJAi-.ir*f  tiu^  dnj.  But  when  th.e  little  flurry  caused  by  the 
scene  ^v,l.^^Ver,"k^^t^lle  flush  passed  off  his  face,  he  relapsed  into 


ESMOND  23 

ids  usual  languor,  trifled  with  his  little  dog,  and  yawned  when  my 
Lady  spoke  to  him. 

Esmond  seems  to  have  been  the  favorite  work  of  its  author, 
and  just  as  Congreve  and  Steele  seemed  to  him  more  like  real  per- 
sons than  most  of  his  contemporarie*,  so  Lady  Cas- 
imai  tie  wood  and  Henry  Esmond  lie  regarded  with  more 

Success.  "^  ® 

paternal  affection  than  Becky  Sharp  or  Rawdon 
Crawley.  lie  used  to  point  out  in  Kensington  the  place  where  his 
fair  heroine  lived,  and  he  followed  Esmond's  footsteps  on  the  Con- 
tinent with  keen  delight.  He  told  TroUope  that  he  had  intended 
Esmond  to  be  his  best  work,  but  that  in  the  judgment  of  the  pub- 
lic, he  had  failed.  It  is  true  that  this  novel  did  not  bring  him  in 
nearly  so  much  money  as  Tlie  Nen'comes,  nor  did  it  have  anything 
like  the  circulation  and  vogue  of  Vanity  Fair  and  Pendennis.  But 
copyright  receipts,  pleasant  as  the}^  are,  make  absolutely  no  cri- 
terion of  the  permanent  literary  value  of  a  book ;  and  although  the 
mob  of  gentlemen  who  read  with  ease  did  not  care  for  Esmond,  its 
worth  was  immediately  recognised  by  those  best  qualified  to  judge, 
and  the  passing  of  the  years  has  added  steadily  to  its  lustre.  Dur- 
ing these  fifty  years,  this  novel  has  grown  rapidly  in  reputation, 
and  many  books  that  outsold  it  in  1852  are  now  completely  forgot- 
ten. The  late  Mr.  Horace  Scudder  has  stated  its  proper  position 
among  Thackeray's  works  in  the  following  admirable  words: 

His  great  novels,  Vanity  Fair,  Pendennis,  The  Newcomes,  and 
\  The  Virginians,  were  all  composed  and  published  in  the  twelve 
';  years  between  1847  and  1859,  when  their  author  was  from  thirty-six 

•  to  forty-eight  years  of  age.     It  is  not  a  mere  mathematical  calcula- 
tion which  places  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  Esq.,  in  the  centre 

•  of  the  group,  and  makes  it  represent  the  culmination  of  Thackeraj^'s  j 
genius.     In  this  novel  meet  all  the  forces  of  his  literary  nature:    l 
His  studies  in  books  and  his  studies  in  life  blend  in  it,  and  its  -very 
form  indicates  how  conscious  of  his  art  he  was  when  he  penned  it. 
He  stepped  aside  often  enough,  in  his  earlier  novels  and  stories,  to 
chat  vv'ith  tlie  reader,  for  he,  the  reader,  and  his  characters  were  all 
contemporaries  |_r-but  in  this  novel  his  firmness  of  touch,  his  con 
tration  of  character  and  action,  disclose  the  attitude  which  he  tal 
tov/ard  his  worJ<»\iIe  is  here  emphatically  an  artist,  oblivious 
bystanders,  re.solut"e  only  to  make  his  painting  a  true 

nd  self-centred  work  of  art. 


r 


24  INTRODUCTION 

IV 

SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STUDYING  ESMOND 

It  is  asssumed  that  the  student  will  first  read  the  book  through 

merely  for  the  pleasure  of  the  story,  without  bothering  his  head 

about  any  details  of  history  and  criticism.     He  will 

Literary        then  be  ready  for  a  more  minute  and  thoughtful  study 

Comparisons. 

of  the  book  as  a  literary  masterpiece^  a  study  which 
should  in  the  end  greatly  increase  the  amount  of  pleasure  to  be 
obtained  from  it.  In  the  first  place,  other  works  of  Thackeray 
should  be  read,  to  become  thoroughly  familiar  with  his  style 
and  art;  one  of  the  modern  realistic  novels,  say  Vanitif  Fair,  will 
serve  as  a  good  illustration  of  Thackeray's  versatility ;  but,  at  any 
rate,  the  student  should  read  The  Virginians  and  the  English 
Humourists,  because  the  former  is  a  kind  of  sequel  to  Esmond,  and 
the  latter  is  the  mine  containing  the  ore  he  used.  It  is  especially 
important  to  read  the  Humourists  along  with  Esmond,  for  there 
are  many  characters  common  to  both  books,  and  there  are  certain 
scenes,  like  the  sobs  of  Steele  over  his  father's  coffin,  which  are 
repeated  in  a  manner  instructive  to  the  student  of  Thackeray. 

Besides  comparing  Esmond  with  other  works  by  the  same 
author,  the  student  has  at  present  an  excellent  opportunity  to 
judge  of  the  real  value  of  this  book  as  a  historical  romance.  If, 
immediately  after  reading  it,  he  will  take  up  three  or  four  of  the 
most  popular  stories  published  within  the  last  two  years,  and  com- 
pare them  in  plot,  style,  and  characters,  with  Esmond,  the  com- 
parison should  assist  him  in  detecting  genuine  merit,  as  distin- 
guished from  superficial  glamour,  and  thus  increase  his  appreciation 
of  what  is  good,  his  dislike  for  what  is  tawdry,  and  in  general 
develop  his  critical  powers;  and  the  development  of  one's  critical 
powers  should  be  the  ambition  of  everybody  who  loves  reading.  It 
is  interesting,  though  not  exhilarating,  to  compare  the  value  of 
the  novels  that  appeared  in  England  and  America  between  1850 
and  18G0  inclusive,  with  the  output  in  the  same  countries  betwee^i 
the  years  1890  and  1900.     In  the  former  decade,  for  example,  wer^  i 


/i 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STUDYING  ESiMOND  2~y 

issued  in  England  David  Copperfield,  Bleak  House,  Peg  Woffington, 
Esmond,  Hypatia,  Christie  Johnstone,  The  Newcomes,  Little  Dorrit, 
Westward  Ho,  The  Professor,  The  Warden,  Tom  Browns  School 
Bays,  It  Is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend,  Pendennis,  2d  vol.,  TJie  Vir- 
ginians, Barchester  Towers,  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  Doctor  Thome, 
A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Adam  Bede,  The  Woman  in  Wliite,  Great 
E.cpectations,  Tlie  Mill  on  the  Floss,  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth; 
ill  America  appeared,  among  other  things.  The  Scarlet  Letter,  TJie 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  There  have  cer- 
tainly been  more  novels  published  in  1890-1900  than  in  1850-1860; 
as  to  the  quality,  the  student  had  better  examine  the  question 
by  himself — for  a  printed  list  would  be  depressing. 

As  Esmond  is  a  historical  romance,  the  student  should  become 

familiar  with  the  historical  facts  and  with  the  literature  of  the  reign 

of  Queen  Anne.      Gardiner's  Student's    History  of 

History.  ^^      ^ 

England  is  a  comprehensive,  accurate,  and  very  use- 
ful book  to  have  at  one's  elbow  for  any  emergency ;  and  the  portion 
from  1660  to  1750  should  be  read  and  mastered.  As  Thackeray  has 
shown  great  skill  in  the  imitation  of  the  Augustan  manner  of 
writing  English,  and  has  even  given  a  clever  imitation  of  a  number 
of  the  Spectator,  the  student  should  find  out  for  himself  what  that 
famous  style  was,  that  he  may  be  able  to  form  an  independent  judg- 
ment of  Thackeray's  ability  to  imitate  it.  The  only  way  to  do  this 
is  to  read  something  by  Swift,  Addison,  Steele,  and  others.^ 
Furthermore,  as  Thackeray  has  essayed  the  difficult  feat  of  bring- 
ing these  men  back  to  life  in  the  pages  of  Esmond,  it  is  well  to 
know  whether  his  portraits  are  or  are  not  correct.  Was  Jonathan 
S\s'ift  the  kind  of  man  that  Thackeray  represents  him  to  be?  How 
is  it  with  the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough?  Are  his  battles  accu- 
rately described,  and  was  he  such  a  cold-blooded  scoundrel?  Was 
Dick  Steele  chronically  drunk,  and  were  his  relations  with  Addison 
and  other  literary  men  precisely  as  our  author  represents  them? 
Was    the.   Pretender   brought  over   from   France    in   the  manner 

'  A  list  of  useful  books  is  appended  to  this  Introduction. 


2G  INTRODUCTION 

described,  or  was  that  the  work  of  Thackeray's  imagination?  Infor- 
mation should  be  obtained  about  minor  characters  in  the  story. 
Who  was  Bishop  Atterbury,  and  General  Webb,  and  the  Earl  of 
Oxford?  In  short  a  thorough  and  intelligent  study  of  this  book,  a 
study  that  should  leave  the  reader  informed  on  every  reference, 
allusion,  and  proper  name,  would  give  him  a  most  enviable  knowl- 
edge of  the  history  of  England  during  the  reign  of  Anne :  of  the 
social  life,  as  shown  in  the  coffee-houses ;  of  literature  as  shown  in 
the  poems  and  prose  of  the  great  Augustans,  and  •  on  the  boards  of 
the  theatres;  of  foreign  wars,  and  internal  politics.  Such  a  result 
is  of  course  ideal,  rather  than  practical.  But  it  does  no  harm  to 
aim  high,  and  if  the  student  is  intelligent  and  ambitious,  Esmond 
will  be  much  more  than  a  good  story;  it  will  be  the  gateway  to 
eighteenth  century  life  and  literature. 

Again,  how  many  college  undergraduates  know  the  names 
and  location  of  any  ten  counties  in  England?  And  yet  a  knowl- 
edge of  literary  geography  is  all  -  important  to 
an  intelligent  comprehension  of  English  poems, 
novels,  and  essays.  When  a  pupil  is  told  that  although 
Castlewood  is  plainly  stated  to  be  in  Hampshire  and  many  of 
the  scenes  in  the  novel  are  laid  in  that  part  of  England,  the  model 
that  the  author  had  in  mind  for  the  estate  and  the  building  was 
Clevedon  Court  in  Somerset,  has  lie  any  idea  what  that  means? 
Does  he  know  the  direction  of  Somerset  from  Hants,  does  he  know 
whether  Somerset  is  a  shire  or  a  town?  If  he  is  like  the  majority 
of  Americans,  he  does  not.  Therefore  the  student  should  add 
to  the  little  private  library  which  it  is  hoped  he  is  collecting,  a  good 
map  of  England,  and  should  learn  the  location  of  all  the  prominent 
counties,  and  follow  the  direction  of  Esmond  when  he  goes  from 
Loudon  to  Castlewood,  or  over  to  Winchester.  A  little  knowledge 
about  so  important  a  town  as  Winchester  will  not  be  a  serious 
injury.  For  example  at  the  end  of  Chapter  7,  Book  II,  Esmond 
looks  out  from  his  window  toward  the  "great  grey  towers  of  the 
' 'ithedral."  Is  that  a  correct  expression  to  apply  to  the  architec- 
t  are  of  Winchester  Cathedral? 


WORKS  HELPFUL  IN  STUDYING  ESMO.YD  27 


A  FEW  WORKS  HELPFUL  IN  STUDYING  ESMOND 

Addison.     Selections,  edited  by  T.  Arnold. 

Brooke,  S.     Primer  of  English  Literature. 

Craik.     English  Prose,  Vol.  III. 

Gardiner,  S.  R.     A  Student's  History  of  England. 

Hare,  A.  J.  C.     Walks  in  London. 

Literary  Map  of  England,  published  by  Ginn  &  Co. 

Melville,  L.     Life  of  Thackeray. 

Merivale  and  Marzials.     Life  of  Thackeray. 

Perry,  T.  S.     English  Literature  in  the  Eighteenth  Century, 

Pope.     Selections,  edited  by  E.  B.  Reed. 

Steele.     Selections,  edited  by  G.  R.  Carpenter. 

Swift.     Selections,  edited  by  Craik. 

Sydney,  W.  C.  England  and  the  English  in  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury. 

Thackeray.     Works,  Biographical  edition. 

Thackeray.  The  English  Humourists.  Annotated  Edition,  pub- 
lished by  Holt. 

Ward,  T.  H.     The  English  Poets,  Vol.  IIL 

Whibley,  C.    Thackeray. 


ill! 


(1 


THE   HISTORY 


OF 


HENRY   ESMOND,  Esq. 

A  COLONEL  IN   THE   SERVICE  OF   HER  MAJESTY   QUEEN  ANNE 

WRITTEN    BY    HIMSELF 


SERVETUR  AD  IMUM 
QUALIS   AB  INCERTO  PROCESSERIT,    ET  SIBI   CONSTET  \ 


29 


TO  THE  EIGHT   HONOURABLE 
WILLIAM    BINGHAM,  LORD   ASHBURTON 

My  Dear  Lord, — The  writer  of  a  book  which  copies  the  manners 
and  language  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  must  not  omit  the  Dedication 
to  the  Patron ;  and  I  ask  leave  to  inscribe  this  volume  to  your  Lord- 
ship, for  the  sake  of  the  great  kindness  and  friendship  which  I  owe 
to  you  and  yours. 

My  volume  will  reach  you  when  the  Author  is  on  his  voyage  to 
a  country  where  your  name  is  as  well  known  as  here.  Wherever  I 
am,  I  shall  gratefully  regard  you;  and  shall  not  be  the  less  wel- 
comed in  America  because  I  am 

Your  obliged  friend  and  servant, 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 
London:  October  IS,  1852. 


^       OF 

UNIVERSi 

OF 


PREFACE 

THE   ESMONDS   OF  VIRGINIA 

The  estate  of  Castlewood,  in  Virginia,  which  was  given  to  our 
ancestors  by  King  Charles  the  First,  as  some  return  for  the  sacri- 
fices made  in  His  Majesty's  cause  by  the  Esmond  family,  lies  in 
Westmoreland  county,  between  the  rivers  Potomac  and  Rappahan- 
noc,  and  was  once  as  great  as  an  English  Principality,  though  in 
the  early  times  its  revenues  were  but  small.  Indeed,  for  near 
eighty  years  after  our  forefathers  possessed  them,  our  plantations 
were  in  the  hands  of  factors,  who  enriched  themselves  one  after 
another,  though  a  few  scores  of  hogsheads  of  tobacco  were  all  tlie 
produce  that,  for  long  after  the  Restoration,  our  family  received 
from  their  Virginian  estates. 

My  dear  and  honoured  father.  Colonel  Henry  Esmond,  whose 
history,  written  by  himself,  is  contained  in  the  accompanying  vol- 
ume, came  to  Virginia  in  the  year  1718,  built  his  house  of  Castle- 
wood, and  here  permanently  settled.  After  a  long  stormy  life  in 
England,  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  many  years  in  peace  and 
honour  in  this  country;  how  beloved  and  respected  by  all  his 
fellow-citizens,  how  inexpressibly  dear  to  his  family,  I  need  not 
say.  His  whole  life  was  a  benefit  to  all  who  were  connected  with 
him.  He  gave  the  best  example,  the  best  advice,  the  most  bounte- 
ous hospitality  to  his  friends ;  the  tenderest  care  to  his  dependants ; 
and  bestowed  on  those  of  his  immediate  family  such  a  blessing  of 
fatherly  love  and  protection  as  can  never  be  thought  of,  by  us  at 
least,  without  veneration  and  thankfulness ;  and  my  sons'  children, 
whether  established  here  in  our  Republic,  or  at  home  in  the  always 
beloved  mother  country,  from  which  our  late  quarrel  hath  sepa- 
•  rated  us,  may  surely  be  proud  to  be  descended  from  one  who  in  all 
ways  was  so  truly  noble. 

31 


32  PREFACE 

My  dear  mother  died  in  1736,  soon  after  our  return  from  England, 
whither  my  parents  took  me  for  my  education ;  and  where  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Warrington,  whom  m}'  children  never 
saw.  "When  it  pleased  Heaven,  in  the  bloom  of  his  youth,  and 
after  but  a  few  months  of  a  most  happy  union,  to  remove  him 
from  me,  I  owed  my  recovery  from  the  grief  which  tliat  calamity 
caused  me,  mainly  to  mj^  dearest  father's  tenderness,  and  then  to 
Ihe  blessing  vouchsafed  to  me  in  the  birth  of  my  two  beloved  boys. 
I  know  the  fatal  differences  which  separated  them  in  politics  never 
disunited  their  hearts;  and  as  I  can  love  them  both,  whether  wear- 
ing the  King's  colours  or  the  Republic's,  I  am  sure  that  they  love 
me  and  one  another,  and  him  above  all,  my  father  and  theirs,  the 
dearest  friend  of  their  childhood,  the  noble  gentleman  who  bred 
them  from  their  infancy  in  the  practice  and  knowledge  of  Truth, 
and  Tx)ve,  and  Honour. 

My  children  will  never  forget  the  appearance  and  figure  of  their 
revered  grandfather;  and  I  wish  I  possessed  the  art  of  drawing 
(which  my  papa  had  in  perfection),  so  that  I  could  leave  to  our 
descendants  a  portrait  of  one  who  was  so  good  and  so  respected. 
My  father  was  of  a  dark  complexion,  with  a  very  great  forehead 
and  dark  hazel  eyes,  overhung  by  eyebrows  which  remained  black 
long  after  his  hair  was  white.  His  nose  was  aquiline,  his  smile 
extraordinary  sweet.  How  well  I  remember  it,  and  how  little  any 
description  I  can  write  can  recall  liis  image  I  He  was  of  rather  low 
stature,  not  being  above  five  feet  seven  inches  in  heiglit ;  he  used 
to  laugh  at  my  sons,  whom  he  called  his  crutches,  and  say  they 
were  grown  too  tall  for  him  to  lean  upon.  But  small  as  he  was,  he 
had  a  perfect  grace  and  majesty  of  deportment,  such  as  I  have 
never  seen  in  this  country,  except  perhaps  in  our  friend  'Mr.  Wash- 
ington, and  commanded  respect  wherever  he  appeared. 

In  all  bodily  exercises  he  excelled,  and  showed  an  extraordinary 
quickness  and  agility.  Of  fencing  he  was  especially  fond,  and 
made  my  two  boys  proficient  in  that  art ;  so  much  so  that  when  the 
French  came  to  this  country  with  Monsieur  Rochambeau,  not  one 
of  his  officers  was  superior  to  my  Henry,  and  he  was  not  the  equal 


PREFACE  38 

of  my  poor  George,  who  had  taken  the  King's  side  in  our  lamentable 
but  glorious  War  of  Independence. 

Neither  my  father  nor  my  mother  ever  wore  powder  in  their 
hair;  both  their  heads  were  as  white  as  silver,  as  I  can  remember 
them.  My  dear  mother  possessed  to  the  last  an  extraordinary 
brightness  and  freshness  of  complexion;  nor  would  people  believe 
that  she  did  not  wear  rouge.  At  sixty  years  of  age-she  still  looked 
young,  and  was  quite  agile.  It  was  not  until  after  that  dreadful 
siege  of  our  house  by  the  Indians,  which  left  me  a  widow  ere  I  was 
a  mother,  that  my  dear  mother's  health  broke.  She  never  recov- 
ered her  terror  and  anxiety  of  those  days,  which  ended  so  fatally 
for  me,  then  a  bride  scarce  six  months  married,  and  died  in  my 
father's  arms  ere  my  own  year  of  widowhood  was  over. 

From  that  day,  until  the  last  of  his  dear  and  honoured  life,  it 
was  ni}'  delight  and  consolation  to  remain  with  him  as  his  com- 
forter and  companion;  and  from  those  little  notes  which  my 
mother  hath  made  here  and  there  in  the  volume  in  which  my  father 
describes  his  adventures  in  Europe,  I  can  well  understand  the 
extreme  devotion  with  which  she  regarded  him — a  devotion  so  paS' 
sionate  and  exclusive  as  to  prevent  her,  I  think,  from  loving  any 
other  person  except  with  an  inferior  regard;  her  whole  thoughts 
being  centred  on  this  one  object  of  affection  and  worship.  I  know 
that,  before  her,  my  dear  father  did  not  show  the  love  which  he 
had  for  his  daughter ;  and  in  her  last  and  most  sacred  moments, 
this  dear  and  tender  parent  owned  to  me  her  repentance  that  she 
had  not  loved  me  enough ;  her  jealousy  even  that  my  father  should 
give  his  atfection  to  any  but  herself;  and  in  tlie  most  fond  and 
beautiful  words  of  affection  and  admonition,  she  bade  me  never  to 
leave  him,  and  to  supply  the  place  which  she  was  quitting.  With 
a  clear  conscience,  and  a  heart  inexpressibly  thankful,  I  think  I 
can  say  that  I  fulfilled  those  dying  commands,  and  that  until  bis  last 
hour  my  dearest  father  never  had  to  complain  that  his  daughter's 
love  and  fidelity  failed  him. 

And  it  is  since  I  knew  him  entirely — for  during  my  mother's  life 
he  never  quite  opened  himself  to  me — since  I  knew  the  value  and 


34  PREFi^CE 

splendour  of  that  affection  which  he  bestowed  upon  me,  that  I 
have  come  to  understand  and  pardon  what,  I  own,  used  to  angei- 
me  in  my  mother's  lifetime,  her  jealousy  respecting  her  husband's 
love.  'Twas  a  gift  so  precious,  that  no  wonder  she  who  had  it  was 
for  keeping  it  all,  and  could  part  with  none  of  it,  even  to  her 
daughter. 

Though  I  never  heard  my  father  use  a  rough  word,  'twas  extra- 
ordinary with  how  much  awe  his  people  regarded  him;  and  the 
servants  on  our  plantation,  both  those  assigned  from  England  and 
the  purchased  negroes,  obeyed  him  with  an  eagerness  such  as  the 
most  severe  taskmasters  round  about  us  could  never  get  from  their 
people.  He  was  never  familiar,  though  perfectly  simple  and  natu- 
ral ;  he  was  the  same  with  the  meanest  man  as  with  the  greatest, 
and  as  courteous  to  a  black  slave  girl  as  to  the  Governor's  wife. 
No  one  ever  thought  of  taking  a  liberty  with  him  (except  once  a 
tipsy  gentleman  from  York,  and  I  am  bound  to  own  that  my  papar 
never  forgave  him):  he  set  the  humblest  people  at  once  on  their 
ease  with  him,  and  brought  down  the  most  arrogant  by  a  grave 
satiric  way,  which  made  persons  exceedingly  afraid  of  him.  His 
courtesy  was  not  put  on  like  a  Sunday  suit,  and  laid  b}-  when  the 
company  went  away;  it  was  always  the  same;  as  he  was  always 
dressed  the  same,  whether  for  a  dinner  by  ourselves  or  for  a  great 
entertainment.  They  say  he  liked  to  be  tlie  first  in  his  company ;  but 
what  company  was  there  in  which  he  would  not  be  first?  When  I 
went  to  Europe  for  my  education,  and  we  passed  a  winter  at  Lon- 
don with  my  half-brother,  my  Lord  Castlewood  and  his  second 
lady,  I  saw  at  Her  Majesty's  Court  some  of  the  most  famous  gen- 
tlemen of  those  days;  and  I  thought,  to  myself  none  of  these  are 
better  than  my  papa ;  and  the  famous  Lord  Bolingbroke,  who  came 
to  us  from  Dawley,  said  as  much  and  that  the  men  of  that  time 
were  not  like  those  of  his  youth: — "Were  your  father,  madam,"  he 
said,  "to  go  into  the  woods,  the  Indians  would  elect  him  Sachem;*' 
and  his  Lordship  was  pleased  to  call  me  Pocahontas. 

I  did  not  see  our  other  relative,  Bishop  Tusher's  lady,  of  whom 
so  much   is   said   in   my   paj)a's  memoirs — although   my   mamma 


PREFACE  35 

went  to  visit  her  in  the  country.  I  have  no  pride  (as  I  showed  by 
complying  with  my  mother's  request,  and  marrying  a  gentleman 
who  was  but  the  younger  son  of  a  Suffolk  Baronet),  yet  I  own  to  a 
decent  respect  for  my  name,  and  wonder  how  one  who  ever  bore  it 
should  change  it  for  that  of  Mrs.  Thomas  Tusher.  I  pass  over  as 
odious  and  unworthy  of  credit  those  reports  (which  I  heard  in 
Europe,  and  was  then  too  young  to  understand),  how  this  person, 
having  left  her  family  and  fled  to  Paris,  out  of  jealousy  of  the 
Pretender,  betrayed  his  secrets  to  my  Lord  Stair,  King  George's 
Ambassador,  and  nearly  caused  the  Prince's  death  tliere;  how  she 
came  to  England  and  married  this  Mr.  Tusher,  and  became  a  great 
favourite  of  King  George  the  Second,  by  whom  Mr.  Tusher  was 
made  a  Dean,  and  then  a  Bishop.  I  did  not  see  the  lady,  who  chose 
to  remain  at  her  palace  all  the  time  we  were  in  London;  but  after 
visiting  her,  my  poor  mamma  said  she  had  lost  all  her  good  looks, 
and  warned  me  not  to  set  too  much  store  by  any  such  gifts  which 
nature  had  bestowed  upon  me.  She  grew  exceedingly  stout;  and 
I  remember  my  brother's  wife,  Lady  Castle  wood,  saying:  "No 
wonder  she  became  a  favourite,  for  the  King  likes  them  old  and 
ugly,  as  his  father  did  befoie  him."  On  which  Papa  said:  "All 
women  were  alike ;  that  there  was  never  one  so  beautiful  as  that 
one;  and  that  we  could  forgive  her  everything  but  her  beauty." 
And  hereupon  my  mamma  looked  vexed,  and  my  Lord  Castlewood 
began  to  laugh ;  and  I,  of  course,  being  a  young  creature,  could  not 
understand  what  was  the  subject  of  their  conversation 

After  the  circumstances  narrated  in  the  third  book  of  these 
Memoirs,  my  father  and  mother  both  went  abroad,  being  advised 
by  their  friends  to  leave  the  country  in  consequence  of  the  transac- 
tions which  are  recounted  at  the  close  of  the  volume  of  the 
Memoirs.  But  my  brother,  liearing  how  the  future  Bishop's  lady 
had  quitted  Castlewood  and  joined  the  Pretender  at  Paris,  pursued 
him,  and  would  have  killed  him.  Prince  as  he  was,  had  not  the 
Prince  managed  to  make  his  escape.  On  his  expedition  to  Scotland 
directly  after,  Castlewood  was  so  enraged  against  him  that  he 
asked  leave  to  serve  as  a  volunteer,  and  join  the  Duke  of  Argyle's 


36  PREFACE 

army  in  Scotland,  which  the  Pretender  never  had  the  courage  to 
face;  and  thenceforth  my  Lord  was  quite  reconciled  to  the  present 
reigning  family,  from  whom  he  hath  even  received  promotion. 

Mrs.  Tusher  was  by  this  time  as  angry  against  the  Pretender  as 
any  of  her  relations  could  be,  and  used  to  boast,  as  I  have  heard, 
that  she  not  only  brought  back  my  Lord  to  the  Church  of  England 
but  procured  the  English  peerage  for  him,  which  the  junior  branch 
of  our  family  at  present  enjoys.  She  was  a  great  friend  of  Sir 
Robert  Walpole,  and  would  not  rest  until  her  husband  slept  at 
Lambeth,  my  papa  used  laughing  to  sa}'.  However,  the  Bishop  died 
of  apoplexy  suddenly,  and  his  wife  erected  a  great  monument  over 
him;  and  the  pair  sleep  under  that  stone,  with  a  canopy  of  marble 
clouds  and  angels  above  them — the  first  Mrs.  Tusher  lying  sixty 
miles  off  at  Castlewood. 

But  my  papa's  genius  and  education  are  both  greater  than  any 
a  woman  can  be  expected  to  have,  and  his  adventures  in  Europe  far 
more  exciting  than  his  life  in  this  country,  which  was  passed  in 
the  tranquil  offices  of  love  and  duty ;  and  I  shall  say  no  more  by 
way  of  introduction  to  his  Memoirs,  nor  keep  my  children  from 
the  perusal  of  a  story  which  is  much  more  interesting  than  that  of 
their  affectionate  old  mother, 

RACHEL  ESMOND   WARRINGTON. 

Castlewood,  Virginia: 
Novembei^  3,  1778. 


THE   HISTOEY   OF 

HENRY    ESMOND 

BOOK  I 

THE  EARLY  YOUTH  OF  HENRY   ESMOND,   UP  TO    THE 

TIME  OF  HIS  LEAVING  TRINITY  COLLEGE, 

IN  CAMBRIDGE 

The  actors  in  the  old  tragedies,  as  we  read,  piped  their  iambics 
to  a  tune,  speaking  from  under  a  mask,  and  wearing  stilts  and  a 
great  head-dress.  'Twas  thought  tlie  dignity  of  the  Tragic  Muse 
required  these  appurtenances,  and  that  she  was  not  to  move  except 
to  a  measure  and  cadence.  So  Queen  Medea  slew  her  children  to  a 
slow  music:  and  King  Agamemnon  perished  in  a  dying  fall  (to  use 
Mr.  Dryden's  words) :  the  Chorus  standing  by  in  a  set  attitude,  and 
rhythmically  and  decorously  bewailing  the  fates  of  those  great 
crowned  persons.  Tlie  Muse  of  History  hath  encumbered  herself 
with  ceremony  as  well  as  her  Sister  of  the  Theatre.  She  too  wears 
the  mask  and  the  cothurnus,  and  speaks  to  measure.  She  too,  in 
our  age,  busies  herself  with  the  affairs  only  of  kings;  waiting  on 
them  obsequiously  and  stately,  as  if  she  were  but  a  mistress  of 
court  ceremonies,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  registering  of  the 
affairs  of  the  common  people.  I  have  seen  in  his  very  old  age  and 
decrepitude  tlie  old  French  King  Lewis  the  Fourteenth,  the  type 
and  model  of  kinghood — who  never  moved  but  to  measure,  who 
lived  and  died  according  to  the  laws  of  his  Court-marshal,  persist- 
ing in  enacting  through  life  the  part  of  Hero;  and,  divested  of 
poetry,  this  was  but  a  little  wrinkled  old  man  pock-marked,  and 

8? 


38  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

with  a  great  periwig  and  red  heels  to  make  him  look  tall-~a  hero 
for  a  book  if  you  like,  or  for  a  brass  statue  or  a  painted  ceiling,  a 
god  in  a  Roman  shape,  but  what  more  than  a  man  for  Madame 
Maintenon,  or  the  barber  who  shaved  him,  or  Monsieur  Fagon,  his 
surgeon?  I  wonder  shall  History  ever  pull  off  her  periwig  and 
cease  to  be  court-ridden?  Shall  w^e  see  something  of  France  and 
England  besides  Versailles  and  Windsor?  I  saw  Queen  Anne  at  the 
latter  place  tearing  down  the  Park  slopes,  after  her  stag-hounds,  and 
driving  her  one-horse  chaise — a  hot,  red-faced  woman,  not  in  the 
least  resembling  that  statue  of  her  which  turns  its  stone  back  upon 
St.  Paul's,  and  faces  the  coaches  struggling  up  Ludgate  Hill.  She 
was  neither  better  bred  nor  wiser  than  you  and  me,  though  we 
knelt  to  hand  her  a  letter  or  a  washhand  basin.  Why  shall  History 
go  on  kneeling  to  the  end  of  time?  I  am  for  having  her  rise  up  off 
her  knees,  and  take  a  natural  posture :  not  to  be  for  ever  perform- 
ing cringes  and  congees  like  a  court-chamberlain,  and  shuffling 
backwards  out  of  doors  in  the  presence  of  the  sovereign.  In  a 
word,  I  would  have  History  familiar  rather  than  heroic :  and  think 
that  Mr.  Hogarth  and  Mr.  Fielding  will  give  our  children  a  much 
better  idea  of  the  manners  of  the  present  age  in  England,  than  the 
Court  Gazette  and  the  newspapers  which  we  get  thence. 

There  was  a  German  officer  of  Webb's,  with  whom  we  used  to 
joke,  and  of  whom  a  story  (whereof  I  myself  was  the  author)  was 
got  to  be  believed  in  the  army,  that  he  was  eldest  son  of  the  hered- 
itary Grand  Bootjack  of  the  Empire,  and  the  heir  to  that  honour  of 
which  his  ancestors  liad  been  very  proud,  having  been  kicked  for 
twenty  generations  by  one  imperial  foot,  as  they  drew  the  boot 
from  the  other.  I  have  heard  that  the  old  Lord  Castlewood,  of  part 
of  w-hose  family  these  present  volumes  are  a  chronicle,  though  he 
came  of  quite  as  good  blood  as  the  Stuarts  whom  he  served  (and 
who  as  regards  mere  lineage  are  no  better  than  a  dozen  English 
and  Scottish  houses  I  could  name),  was  prouder  of  his  post  about 
the  Court  than  of  his  ancestral  honours,  and  vakied  his  dignity  (as 
Warden  of  the  Butteries  and  Groom  of  the  King's  Posset)  so 
highly,  that  lie  cheerfully  ruined  himself  for  the  thankless  and 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  39 

thriftless  race  who  bestowed  it.  He  pawned  his  plate  for  King 
Charles  the  First,  mortgaged  his  property  for  the  same  cause,  and 
lost  the  greater  part  of  it  by  fines  and  sequestration :  stood  a  siege 
of  his  castle  b}^  Ireton.  where  his  brother  Thomas  capitulated  (after- 
ward making  terms  with  the  Commonwealth,  for  which  the  elder 
brother  never  forgave  him)  and  where  his  second  brother  Edward, 
who  had  embraced  the  ecclesiastical  profession,  was  slain  on  Castle- 
wood  Tower,  being  engaged  there  both  as  preacher  and  artilleryman. 
This  resolute  old  loyalist,  who  was  with  the  King  whilst  his  house 
was  thus  being  battered  down,  escaped  abroad  with  his  only  son, 
then  a  boy,  to  return  and  take  a  part  in  Worcester  fight.  On  that 
fatal  field  Eustace  Esmond  was  killed,  and  Castlewood  fled  from  it 
once  more  into  exile,  and  henceforward,  and  after  the  Restoration, 
never  was  away  from  the  Court  of  the  monarch  (for  whose  return 
we  offer  thanks  in  the  Prayer-Book)  who  sold  his  country  and  who 
took  bribes  of  the  French  king. 

What  spectacle  is  more  august  than  that  of  a  great  king  in 
exile?  Who  is  more  worthy  of  respect  than  a  brave  man  in  misfor- 
tune? Mr.  Addison  has  painted  such  a  figure  in  his  noble  piece  of 
*'Cato."  Bat  suppose  fugitive  Cato  fuddling  himself  at  a  tavern 
with  a  wench  on  each  knee,  a  dozen  faithful  and  tipsy  companions 
of  defeat,  and  a  landlord  calling  out  for  his  bill ;  and  the  dignity  of 
misfortune  is  straightway  lost.  The  Historical  Muse  turns  away 
shamefaced  from  the  vulgar  scene,  and  closes  the  door — on  which 
the  exile's  unpaid  drink  is  scored  up — upon  him  and  his  pots  and 
his  pipes,  and  the  tavern-chorus  which  he  and  his  friends  are  sing- 
ing. Such  a  man  as  Charles  should  have  had  an  Ostade  or  Mieris  to 
paint  him.  Your  Knellers  and  Le  Bruns  only  deal  in  clumsy  and 
impossible  allegories:  and  it  hath  always  seemed  to  me  blasphemy 
to  claim  Olympus  for  such  a  wine-drabbled  divinity  as  that. 

About  the  King's  follower,  the  Viscount  Castlewood — orphaned 
of  his  son,  ruined  by  his  fidelity,  bearing  many  wounds  and  marks 
of  bravery,  old  and  in  exile — his  kinsmen  I  suppose  should  be  silent; 
nor  if  this  patriarch  fell  down  in  his  cups,  call  fie  upon  him,  and 
fetc'h  passers-by  to  laugh  at  his  red  face  and  white  hairs.     What ! 


40  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

I, 
does  a  stream  rush  out  of  a  mountain  free  and  pure,  to  roll  through 
fair  pastures,  to  feed  and  throw  out  bright  tributaries,  and  to  end 
in  a  village  gutter?  Lives  that  have  noble  commencements  have 
often  no  better  endings;  it  is  not  without  a  kind  of  awe  and  rever- 
ence that  an  observer  should  speculate  upon  such  careers  as  he 
traces  the  course  of  them.  I  have  seen  too  much  of  success  in  life 
to  take  off  my  hat  and  huzzah  to  it  as  it  passes  in  its  gilt  coach; 
and  would  do  my  little  part  with  my  neighbours  on  foot,  that  they 
should  not  gape  with  too  much  wojider,  nor  applaud  too  loudly. 
Is  it  the  Lord  Mayor  going  in  state  to  mince-pies  and  the  Mansion 
House?  Is  it  poor  Jack  of  Newgate's  procession,  with  the  sheriff 
and  javelin-men,  conducting  him  on  his  last  journey  to  Tyburn?  I 
look  into  my  heart  and  think  that  I  am  as  good  as  my  Lord  Mayor, 
and  know  I  am  as  bad  as  Tyburn  Jack,  Give  me  a  chain  and  red 
gown  and  a  pudding  before  me,  and  I  could  play  the  part  of  Alder- 
man very  well,  and  sentence  Jack  after  dinner.  Starve  me,  keep 
me  from  books  and  honest  people,  educate  me  to  love  dice,  gin,  and 
pleasure,  and  put  me  on  Hounslow  Heath,  with  a  purse  before  me, 
and  I  will  take  it.  "And  I  shall  be  deservedly  hanged,"  say  you, 
wishing  to  put  an  end  to  this  prosing.  I  don't  say  No.  I  can't  but 
accept  the  world  as  I  find  it,  including  a  rope's  end,  as  long  as  it  is 
in  fashion. 


I  CHAPTER  I 

I   AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  FAMILY  OF  ESMOND  OF  CASTLEWOOD  HALL 

When  Francis,  fourth  Viscount  Castlewood,  came  to  his  title, 
and  presently  after  to  take  possession  of  his  house  of  Castlewood, 
County  Hants,  in  the  year  1691,  almost  the  only  tenant  of  the  place 
besides  the  domestics  was  a  lad  of  twelve  years  of  age,  of  whom 
no  one  seemed  to  take  any  note  until  my  Lady  Viscountess  lighted 
upon  him,  going  over  the  house  w4th  the  housekeeper  on  the  day  of 
her  arrival.  The  boy  was  in  the  room  known  as  the  Book-room^ 
or  Yellow  Gallery,  where  the  portraits  of  the  family  used  to  hang, 
that  fine  piece  among  others  of  Sir  Antonio  Van  Dyck  of  George, 
second  Viscount,  and  that  by  Mr.  Dobson  of  my  Lord  the  third 
Viscount,  just  deceased,  which  it  seems  his  lady  and  wn'dow  did  not 
think  fit  to  carry  away,  when  she  sent  for  and  carried  off  to  her 
house  at  Chelsey,  near  to  London,  the  picture  of  herself  by  Sir 
Peter  Lely,  in  which  her  Ladyship  was  represented  as  a  huntress  of 
Diana's  court. 

The  new  and  fair  lady  of  Castlewood  found  the  sad,  lonely,  little 
occupant  of  this  gallery  busy  over  his  great  book,  which  he  laid 
down  when  he  was  aware  that  a  stranger  was  at  hand.  And, 
knowing  who  that  person  must  be,  the  lad  stood  up  and  bowed 
before  her,  performing  a  shy  obeisance  to  the  mistress  of  his  house.  • 

She  stretched  out  her  hand — indeed  when  w^as  it  that  that  hand! 
would  not  stretch  out  to  do  an  act  of  kindness,  or  to  protect  grief; 
and  ill-fortune?  "And  this  is  our  kinsman, "  she  said ;  "and  what" 
is  your  name,  kinsman?" 

"My  name  is  Henry  Esmond,"  said  the  lad,  looking  up  at  her  in, 
a  sort  of  delight  and  wonder,  for  she  had  come  upon  him  as  a  Dea 
certe,  and  appeared  the  most  charming  object  he  had  ever  looked 
on.  Her  goMen  hair  was  shining  in  the  gold  of  the  sun;  her 
complexion  was  of  a  dazzling  bloom ;  her  lips  smiling,  and  her  eyes 

41 


43  THE  HISTORY   OF  HEXRY   ESMOND 

beaming  with  a  kindness  which  made  Harry  Esmond's  heart  to 
beat  with  surprise. 

i^His  name  is  Henry  Esmond,  sure  enough,  my  Lady,"  says  Mrs. 
Worksop,  the  housekeeper  (an  old  tyrant  whom  Henry  Esmond 
plagued  more  than  he  hated),  and  the  old  gentlewoman  looked 
significantly  towards  the  late  lord's  picture,  as  it  uov.-  is  in  tlie 
family,  noble  and  severe-looking,  with  his  hand  on  his  sword,  and 
his  order  on  his  cloak,  which  he  had  from  the  Emperor  during  the 
war  on  the  Danube  against  the  Turk. 

Seeing  the  great  and  undeniable  likeness  between  his  portrait 
and  tlie  lad,  the  new  Viscountess,  who  had  still  hold  of  tlie  boy's 
hand  as  she  looked  at  the  picture,  blushed  and  dropped  the  hand 
quickly,  and  walked  down  the  gallery,  followed,  by  Mrs.  Worksop. 

When  the  lady  came  back,  Harry  Esmond  stood  exactly  in  the 
same  spot,  and  with  his  hand  as  it  had  fallen  when  he  dropped  it 
on  his  black  coat. 

Her  heart  melted,  I  suppose  (indeed,  she  hath  since  owned  as 
much),  at  the  notion  that  she  should  do  anything  unkind  to  any 
mortal,  great  or  small ;  for,  when  she  returned,  she  had  sent  away 
the  housekeeper  upon  an  errand  by  the  door  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  gallery ;  and,  coming  back  to  the  lad,  with  a  look  of  infinite 
pity  and  tenderness  in  her  eyes,  she  took  his  hand  again,  placing 
her  other  fair  hand  on  his  head,  and  saying  some  M'ords  to  him, 
which  were  so  kind,  and  said  in  a  voice  so  sweet,  that  the  boy,  who 
had  never  looked  upon  so -much  beauty  before,  felt  as  if  the  touch 
of  a  superior  being  or  angel  smote  him  down  to  the  ground,  and 
kissed  the  fair  protecting  hand  as  he  knelt  on  one  knee.  To  the 
very  last  hour  of  his  life,  Esmond  remembered  the  lad}-  as  she  then 
spoke  and  looked,  the  rings  on  her  fair  hands,  the  very  scent  of  her 
robe,  the  beam  of  her  eyes  lighting  up  with  surprise  and  kindness, 
her  lips  blooming  in  a  smile,  the  sun  making  a  golden  lialo  round 
her  hair. 

As  the  boy  was  yet  in  this  attitude  of  humility,  enters  behind 
him  a  portly  gentleman,  with  a  little  girl  of  four  j^ears  old  in  his 
hand.     The  gentleman  burst  into  a  great  laugh  at  the  lady  and  h 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  43 

adorer,  with  his  little  queer  figure,  his  sallow  face  and  long  black 
hair.  The  ladj^  blushed,  and  seemed  to  deprecate  his  ridicule  by  a 
look  of  appeal  to  her  husband,  for  it  was  my  Lord  Viscount  who 
now  arrived,  and  whom  the  lad  knew,  having  once  before  seen  him 
in  the  late  lord's  lifetime. 

"So  this  is  the  little  priest!"  says  my  Lord,  looking  down  at  the 
lad.     "Welcome,  kinsman!" 

"He  is  saying  his  prayers  to  mamma,"  says  the  little  girl,  who 
came  up  to  her  papa's  knees;  and  my  Lord  burst  out  into  another 
great  laugh  at  this,  and  kinsman  Henry  looked  very  silly.  He 
invented  a  half-dozen  of  speeches  in  reply,  but  'twas  months  after- 
wards when  he  thought  of  this  adventure:  as  it  was,  he  had  never 
a  word  in  answer. 

"Le  pauvre  enfant,  il  n"a  que  nous,"  says  the  ladj^  looking 
to  her  lord ;  and  the  boy,  who  understood  her,  though  doubtless  she 
thought  otherwise,  thanked  her  with  all  his  heart  for  her  kind 
speech.  ** 

"And  he  shan't  want  for  friends  here,"  says  my  Lord,  in  a  kind 
voice,  "shall  he,  little  Trix?'' 

The  little  girl,  whose  name  was  Beatrix,  and  whom  her  papa 
called  by  this  diminutive,  looked  at  Henry  Esmond  solemnly,  with 
a  pair  of  large  eyes,  and  then  a  smile  shone  over  her  face,  which 
was  as  beautiful  as  that  of  a  cherub,  and  she  came  up  and  put  out 
a  little  hand  to  him.  A  keen  and  delightful  pang  of  gratitude, 
happiness,  affection,  filled  the  orphan  child's  heart  as  he  received 
from  the  protectors,  whom  Heaven  had  sent  to  him,  these  touching 
words  and  tokens  of  friendliness  and  kindness.  But  an  hour  since 
he  liad  felt  quite  alone  in  the  world;  when  he  heard  the  great  peal 
of  bells  from  Castle  wood  church  ringing  that  morning  to  welcome 
the  arrival  of  the  new  lord  and  lady,  it  had  rung  only  terror  and 
anxiety  to  him,  for  he  knew  not  how  the  new  owner  would 
deal  with  him;  and  those  to  whom  he  formerly  looked  for  jiro- 
tection  were  forgotten  or  dead.  Pride  and  doubt  too  had  kept 
■kini  withindoors,  when  tlie  Vicar  and  the  people  of  the  village, 
and  the  servants  of  the  house,  had  gone  out  to  welcome  my  Lord 


44  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

Castlewood — for  Henry  Esmond  was  no  servant,  though  a  depend- 
ant ;  no  relative,  though  he  bore  the  name  and  inherited  the  blood 
of  the  house;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  noise  and  acclamations 
attending  the  arrival  of  the  new  lord  (for  whom,  you  may  be  sure, 
a  feast  was  got  ready,  and  guns  were  fired,  and  tenants  and 
domestics  huzzahed  when  his  carriage  approached  and  rolled  into 
the  courtyard  of  the  Hall),  no  one  ever  took  any  notice  of  young 
Henry  Esmond,  who  sate  unobserved  and  alone  in  the  Book-room, 
until  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  when  his  new  friends  found 
him. 

When  my  Lord  and  Lady  were  going  away  thence,  the  little  girl, 
still  holding  her  kinsman  by  the  hand,  bade  him  to  come  too. 
"Thou  wilt  always  forsake  an  old  friend  for  a  new  one,  Trix,"  says 
her  father  to  her  good-naturedly;  and  went  into  the  gallery,  giving 
an  arm  to  his  lady.  They  passed  tlience  through  the  music  gallery, 
long  since  dismantled,  and  Queen  Elizabeth's  Rooms,  in  the  clock- 
tower,  and  out  into  the  terrace,  where  was  a  fine  prospect  of  sunset 
and  the  great  darkling  woods  with  a  cloud  of  rooks  returning;  and 
the  plain  and  river  with  Castlewood  village  beyond,  and  purple 
hills  beautiful  to  look  at— and  the  little  heir  of  Castlewood,  a  child 
of  two  years  old,  was  already  here  on  the  terrace  in  his  nurse's 
arms,  from  whom  he  ran  across  the  grass  instantly  he  perceived  his 
mother,  and  came  to  her. 

"If  thou  canst  not  be  happy  here,"  says  my  Lord,  looking  round 
at  the  scene,  "thou  art  hard  to  please,  Rachel." 

"I  am  happy  where  j^ou  are,"  she  said,  "but  we  were  happiest 
of  all  at  Walcote  Forest."  Then  my  Lord  began  to  describe  what 
was  before  them  to  his  wife,  and  what  indeed  little  Harry  knew 
better  than  he— viz.,  the  history  of  the  house:  how  by  yonder  gate 
the  page  ran  away  with  the  heiress  of  Castlewood.  by  which  the 
estate  came  into  the  present  family;  how  the  Roundheads  attacked 
the  clock-tower,  which  my  Lord's  father  was  slain  in  defending. 
"I  was  but  two  years  old  then,"  says  he,  "but  take  forty  six  from 
ninety,  and  how  old  shall  I  be,  kinsman  Harry?" 

"Thirty,"  says  his  wife,  with  a  laugh.  ^ 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  •  45 

"A  great  deal  too  old  for  you,  Rachel,'"  answers  my  Lord,  look- 
ing fondly  down  at  her.  Indeed  she  seemed  to  be  a  girl,  and  was  at 
that  time  scarce  twenty  years  old. 

"You  know,  Frank,  I  will  do  anything  to  please  you,"  says  she, 
"and  I  promise  you  I  will  grow  older  every  day." 

"You  mustn't  call  papa  Frank;  you  must  call  papa  my  Lord 
now,"  says  Miss  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  her  little  head;  at  which 
the  mother  smiled,  and  the  good-natured  father  laughed,  and  the 
little  trotting  boy  laughed,  not  knowing  why — but  because  he  was 
happy,  no  doubt — as  every  one  seemed  to  be  there.  How  those 
trivial  incidents  and  words,  the  landscape  and  sunshine,  and  the 
group  of  people  smiling  and  talking,  remain  fixed  on  the  memory ! 

As  the  sun  was  setting,  the  little  heir  was  sent  in  the  arms  of 
his  nurse  to  bed,  wiiither  he  went  howling;  but  little  Trix  was 
promised  to  sit  to  supper  that  night — "and  you  will  come  too,  kins- 
man, won't  you?"  she  said.  \ 

Harry  Esmond  blushed:  "I  —  I  have  supper  with  Mrs. 
Worksop,"  says  he. 

"D — n  it,"  says  my  Lord,  "thou  shalt  sup  with  us,  Harry, 
to-night!  Shan't  refuse  a  lady,  shall  he,  Trix?" — and  they  aU 
wondered  at  Harry's  performance  as  a  trencherman,  in  which 
character  the  poor  boy  acquitted  himself  very  remarkably;  for  the 
truth  is  he  had  had  no  dinner,  nobody  thinking  of  him  in  the 
bustle  which  the  house  was  in,  during  the  preparations  antecedent 
to  the  new  lord's  arrival. 

"No  dinner!  poor  dear  child!"  says  my  Lady,  heaping  up  his 
plate  with  meat,  and  my  Lord,  filling  a  bumper  for  him,  bade  him 
call  a  health;  on  which  Master  Harry,  crying  "The  King,"  tossed 
off  the  wine.  My  Lord  was  ready  to  drink  that,  and  most  other 
toasts:  indeed  only  too  ready.  He  would  not  hear  of  Doctor 
Tusher  (the  Vicar  of  Castle  wood,  who  came  to  supper)  going  away 
when  the  sweetmeats  were  brought:  he  had  not  had  a  chaplain 
long  enough,  he  said,  to  be  tired  of  him :  so  his  reverence  kept  my 
Lord  company  for  some  hours  over  a  pipe  and  a  punch  bowl;  and 
went  away  home  with  rather  a  reeling  gait,  and  declaring  a  dozen 


46  THE  HISTORY  OF  KENRY  ESMOND 

of  times,  that  his  Lordship's  affabilitj^  surpassed  every  kindness  he 
had  ever  had  from  his  Lordship's  gracious  family. 

As  for  young  Esmond,  when  he  got  to  his  little  chamber,  it  was 
with  a  heart  full  of  surprise  and  gratitude  towards  the  new  friends 
whom  this  happy  day  had  brought  him.  He  was  up  and  v.'atch- 
ing  long  before  the  house  was  astir,  longing  to  see  that  fair  lady 
and  her  children — that  kind  protector  and  patron;  and  only  fearful 
lest  their  welcome  of  the  past  night  should  in  any  way  be  with- 
drawn or  altered.  But  presently  little  Beatrix  came  out  into  the 
garden,  and  her  mother  followed,  who  greeted  Harrs^  as  kindly  as 
before.  He  told  her  at  greater  length  the  histories  of  the  house 
(svhich  he  had  been  taught  in  the  old  lord's  time),  and  to  which  she 
listened  with  great  interest ;  and  then  he  told  her,  with  respect  to 
the  night  before,  that  he  understood  French,  and  thanked  her  for 
lier  protection. 

"Do  you?"  says  she,  with  a  blush;  "then,  sir,  you  shall  teach  me 
and  Beatrix."  And  she  asked  him  many  more  questions  regarding 
himself,  which  had  best  be  told  more  fully  and  explicitly  than  in 
those  brief  replies  which  the  lad  made  to  his  mistress's  questions. 


CHAPTER  II 

RELATES   HOW  FRANCIS,  FOURTH  VISCOUNT,   ARRIVES   AT 
CASTLEWOOD 

'Tis  known  that  the  name  of  Esmond  and  the  estate  of  Castle- 
wood,  com.  Hants,  came  into  possession  of  the  present  family 
through  Dorothea,  daughter  and  heiress  of  Edward,  Earl  and 
Marquis  Esmond,  and  Lord  of  Castlewood,  which  lady  married,  23^ 
Eliz.,  Henrj^  Poyns,  gent. ;  the  said  Henry  being  then  a  page  in  the 
household  of  her  father.  Francis,  son  and  heir  of  the  above 
Henry  and  Dorothea,  who  took  the  maternal  name,  which  the 
family  hath  borne  subsequently,  was  made  Knight  and  Baronet  by 
Knig  James  the  First;  and  being  of  a  military  disposition,  remained 
long  in  Germany  with  the  Elector-Palatine,  in  whose  service  Sir 
Francis  incurred  both  expense  and  danger,  lending  large  sums  of 
money  to  that  unfortunate  Prince ;  and  receiving  many  wounds  in 
the  battles  against  the  Imperialists,  in  which  Sir  Francis  engaged. 

On  his  return  home  Sir  Francis  was  rewarded  for  his  services 
and  many  sacrifices,  by  his  late  Majesty  James  the  First,  who 
graciously  conferred  upon  this  tried  servant  tiie  post  of  AVarden  of 
the  Butteries  and  Groom  of  the  King's  Posset,  which  high  and 
confidential  oflEice  he  filled  in  that  king's  and  his  unhappy 
successor's  reign. 

His  age,  and  many  wounds  and  infirmities,  obliged  Sir  Francis  to 
perform  much  of  his  duty  by  deputy;  and  his  son,  Sir  George 
Esmond,  knight  and  banneret,  first  as  his  father's  lieutenant,  and 
afterwards  as  inheritor  of  his  father's  title  and  dignity,  performed 
this  office  during  almost  the  wiiole  of  the  reign  of  King  Charles 
the  First,  and  his  two  sons  who  succeeded  him. 

Sir  George  Esmond  married,  rather  beneath  the  rank  that  a 
person  of  his  name  ar.d  honour  might  aspire  to,  the  daughter  of 

47 


48  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Thos.  Topliam,  of  the  city  of  London,  alderman  and  goldsmith, 
who,  taking  the  Parliamentary  side  in  the  troubles  then  com- 
mencing, disappointed  Sir  George  of  the  property  which  he 
expected  at  the  demise  of  his  father-in  law,  who  devised  his  money 
to  his  second  daughter,  Barbara,  a  spinster. 

Sir  George  Esmond,  on  his  part,  was  conspicuous  for  his  attach- 
inieut  and  loyalty  to  the  royal  cause  and  person;  and  the  King 
being  at  Oxford  in  1642,  Sir  George,  with  the  consent  of  his  father, 
then  very  aged  and  infirm,  and  residing  at  his  house  of  Castle- 
wood,  melted  the  whole  of  the  family  plate  for  his  Majesty's 
^service. 

For  this,  and  other  sacrifices  and  merits,  his  Majesty,  by  patent 
\mder  the  Privy  Seal,  dated  Oxford,  Jan.  1843,  was  pleased  to 
advance  Sir  Francis  Esmond  to  the  dignity  of  Viscount  Castle- 
wood,  of  Shandon,  in  Ireland:  and  the  Viscount's  estate  being 
much  impoverished  by  loans  to  the  King,  which  in  those  trouble- 
some times  his  Majesty  could  not  repay,  a  grant  of  land  in  the 
plantations  of  Virginia  was  given  to  the  Lord  Viscount ;  part  of 
which  land  is  in  possession  of  descendants  of  his  family  to  the 
present  day. 

The  first  Viscount  Castlewood  died  full  of  years,  and  within  a 
few  months  after  he  had  been  advanced  to  his  honours.  He  was 
succeeded  by  his  eldest  son,  the  before-named  George;  and  left 
issue  besides,  Thomas,  a  colonel  in  the  King's  army,  who  after- 
wards joined  the  Usurper's  Government;  and  Francis,  in  holy 
orders,  who  was  slain  whilst  defending  the  House  of  Castlewood 
against  the  Parliament,  anno  1647. 

George  Lord  Castlewood  (the  second  Viscount),  of  King  Charles 
the  First's  time,  had  no  male  issue  save  his  one  son,  Eustace 
Esmond,  who  was  killed  with  half  of  the  Castlewood  men  beside 
him,  at  Worcester  fight.  The  lands  about  Castlewood  were  sold 
and  apportioned  to  the  Commonwealth-men;  Castlewood  being 
concerned  in  almost  all  of  the  plots  against  tlie  Protector,  after  the 
death  of  the  King,  and  up  to  King  Charles  the  Second's  restora- 
tion.    My   Lord  followed   that   King's  Court  about   in   its  exile. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  49 

having  ruined  himself  in  its  service.  He  had  but  one  daughter, 
who  was  of  no  great  comfort  to  her  father;  for  misfortune  had  not 
taught  those  exiles  sobriety  of  life;  and  it  is  said  that  the  Duke  of 
York  and  liis  brother  the  King  both  quarrelled  about  Isabel 
Esmond.  She  was  maid  of  honour  to  the  Queen  Henrietta  Maria; 
she  early  joined  the  Roman  Church;  her  father,  a  weak  man, 
following  her  not  long  after  at  Breda. 

On  the  death  of  Eustace  Esmond  at  Worcester,  Thomas  Esmond, 
nephew  to  my  Lord  Castlewood,  and  then  a  stripling,  became  heir 
to  the  title.  His  father  had  taken  the  Parliament  side  in  the  quar- 
rels, and  so  had  been  estranged  from  the  chief  of  his  house ;  and 
my  Lord  Castlewood  was  at  first  so  much  enraged  to  think  that  his 
title  (albeit  little  more  than  an  empty  one  now)  should  pass  to  a 
rascally  Roundhead,  that  he  would  have  married  again,  and  indeed 
proposed  to  do  so  to  a  vintner's  daughter  at  Bruges,  to  whom  his 
Lordship  owed  a  score  for  lodging  when  the  King  was  there,  but 
for  fear  of  the  laughter  of  the  Court,  and  the  anger  of  his  daugh- 
ter, of  whom  he  stood  in  awe;  for  she  was  in  temper  as  imperious 
and  violent  as  my  Lord,  who  was  much  enfeebled  by  wounds  and 
drinking,  was  weak. 

Lord  Castlewood  would  have  had  a  match  between  his  daughtei 
Isabel  and  her  cousin,  the  son  of  that  Francis  Esmond  who  was 
killed  at  Castlewood  siege.  And  the  lady,  it  was  said,  took  a  fancy 
to  the  young  man,  who  was  her  junior  by  several  years  (which 
circumstance  she  did  not  consider  to  be  a  fault  in  him) ;  but 
having  paid  his  court,  and  being  admitted  to  the  intimacy  of  the 
house,  he  suddenly  flung  up  his  suit,  when  it  seemed  to  be  pretty 
prosperous,  without  giving  a  pretext  for  his  behaviour.  His  friends 
rallied  him  at  what  they  laughingly  chose  to  call  his  infidelity: 
Jack  Churchill,  Frank  Esmond's  lieutenant  in  the  Royal  Regiment 
of  Foot-guards,  getting  the  company  wiiich  Esmond  vacated, 
when  he  left  the  Court  and  went  to  Tangier  in  a  rage  at  discover- 
ing that  his  promotion  depended  on  the  complaisance  of  his  elderly 
affianced  bride.  He  and  Churchill,  who  had  been  condiscipuli  at 
St.  Paul's  School,  had  words  about  this  matter;  and  Frank  Esmond 


50  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

said  to  him  with  an  oath,  ''Jack,  your  sister  may  be  so-and-so,  but 
by  Jove  my  wife  shan't!"  and  swords  were  drawn,  and  blood  drawn 
too,  until  friends  separated  tbem  on  this  quarrel.  Few  men  were 
so  jealous  about  the  point  of  honour  in  those  days;  and  gentlemen 
of  good  birth  and  lineage  thought  a  royal  blot  was  an  ornament  to 
their  family  coat.  Frank  Esmond  retired  in  the  sulks,  first  to 
Tangier,  whence  he  returned  after  two  years'  service,  settling  on  a 
small  property  he  had  of  his  mother,  near  to  "Winchester,  and 
became  a  country  gentleman,  and  kept  a  pack  of  beagles,  and 
never  came  to  Court  again  in  King  Charles's  time.  But  his  uncle 
Castlewood  was  never  reconciled  to  him ;  nor,  for  some  time  after- 
wards, his  cousin  whom  he  had  refused. 

By  places,  pensions,  bounties  from  France,  and  gifts  from  the 
King,  whilst  his  daughter  was  in  favour.  Lord  Castlewood,  who 
had  spent  in  the  Royal  service  his  youth  and  fortune,  did  not 
retrieve  the  latter  quite,  and  never  cared  to  visit  Castlewood,  or 
repair  it,  since  the  death  of  his  son,  but  managed  to  keep  a  good 
house,  and  figure  at  Court,  and  to  save  a  considerable  sum  of  ready 
money. 

And  now,  his  heir  and  nephew,  Thomas  Esmond,  began  to  bid 
for  his  uncle's  favour.  Thomas  had  served  with  the  Emperor,  and 
witli  the,  Dutch,  when  King  Charles  was  compelled  to  lend  troops 
to  the  States,  and  against  them,  when  his  Majesty  made  an  alliance 
with  the  French  King.  In  these  campaigns  Thomas  Esmond  was 
more  remarked  for  duelling,  brawling,  vice,  and  play,  than  for  any 
conspicuous  gallantry  in  the  field,  and  came  back  to  England,  like 
many  another  English  gentleman  who  has  travelled,  with  a  character 
by  no  means  improved  by  Iiis  foreign  experience.  He  had  dissi- 
pated his  small  paternal  inheritance  of  a  younger  brother's 
portion,  and,  as  truth  must  be  told,  was  no  better  tlian  a  hanger-on 
of  ordinaries,  and  a  brawler  about  Alsatia  and  the  Friars,  when  he 
bethought  him  of  a  means  of  mending  his  fortune. 

His  cousin  was  now  of  more  than  middle  age,  and  had  nobody's 
word  but  her  own  for  the  beauty  which  she  said  she  once  possessed. 
She  was  lean,  and  yellow,  and  long  in  the  tooth ;  all  the  red  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  51 

white  in  all  the  toy  shops  in  London  could  not  make  a  beauty  of 
her — Mr.  Killigrew  called  her  the  Sibyl,  the  death's-head  put  up  at 
the  King's  feast  as  a  memento  mori,  &c. — in  fine,  a  woman  who 
might  be  easy  of  conquest,  bat  whom  only  a  very  bold  man  would 
think  of  conquering.  This  bold  man  was  Thomas  Esmond.  He 
had  a  fancy  to  my  Lord  Castle  wood's  savings,  the  amount  of  which 
rumour  had  very  much  exaggerated.  Madame  Isabel  was  said  to 
have  Royal  jewels  of  great  value;  whereas  poor  Tom  Esmond's  last 
coat  but  one  was  in  pawn. 

My  Lord  had  at  this  time  a  fine  house  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
nigh  to  the  Duke's  Theatre  and  the  Portugal  ambassador's  chapel. 
Tom  Esmond,  who  had  frequented  the  one,  as  long  as  he  had  money 
to  spend  among  the  actresses,  now  came  to  the  church  as  assidu- 
ously. He  looked  so  lean  and  shabby,  that  he  passed  without 
diificulty  for  a  repentant  sinner;  and  so,  becoming  converted,  you 
may  be  sure  took  his  uncle's  priest  for  a  director. 

Tliis  charitable  Father  reconciled  him  with  the  old  lord  his 
uncle,  who  a  short  time  before  would  not  speak  to  him,  as  Tom 
passed  under  my  Lord's  coach  window,  his  Lordship  going  in  state 
to  his  place  at  Court,  while  his  nephew  slunk  by  with  his  battered 
hat  and  feather,  and  the  point  of  his  rapier  sticking  out  of  the 
scabbard — to  his  twopenny  ordinary'  in  Bell  Yard. 

Thomas  Esmond,  after  this  reconciliation  with  his  uncle,  very 
soon  began  to  grow  sleek,  and  to  show  signs  of  the  benefits  of  good 
living  and  clean  linen.  He  fasted  rigorously  twice  a  week,  to  be 
sure;  but  he  made  amends  on  the  other  days:  and,  to  show  how 
great  liis  appetite  was,  Mr.  Wycherley  said,  he  ended  by  swallowing 
that  fly-blown  rank  old  morsel  his  cousin.  There  were  endless 
jokes  and  lampoons  about  this  marriage  at  Court :  but  Tom  rode 
thither  in  his  uncle's  coach  now,  called  him  father,  and  having 
won  could  afford  to  laugh.  This  marriage  took  place  very  shortly 
before  King  Charles  died:  whom  the  Viscount  of  Castle  wood 
speedily  followed. 

The  issue  of  this  marriage  was  one  son,  whom  the  parents 
watched  with  an  intense  eagerness  and  care ;  but  who,  in  sjpite  of 


52  THE  HISTORY  OF  HE>^RY  ESMOND 

nurses  and  physicians,  had  only  a  brief  existence.  His  tainted 
blood  did  not  run  very  long  in  his  poor  feeble  little  body.  Symp- 
toms of  evil  broke  out  early  on  him ;  and,  part  from  flattery,  part 
superstition,  nothing  would  satisfy  my  Lord  and  Lady,  especially 
the  latter,  but  having  the  poor  little  cripple  touched  by  his  Majesty 
at  his  church.  They  were  ready  to  crj-  out  miracle  at  first  (the 
doctors  and  quacksalvers  being  constantly  in  attendance  on  the 
child,  and  experimenting  on  his  poor  little  body  with  every  con- 
ceivable nostrum) — but  though  there  seemed,  from  some  reason,  a, 
notable  amelioration  in  the  infant's  health  after  his  Majesty 
touched  him,  in  a  few  weeks  afterward  the  poor  thing  died — caus- 
ing the  lampooners  of  the  Court  to  say,  that  the  King,  in  expelling 
evil  out  of  the  infant  of  Tom  Esmond  and  Isabella  his  wife, 
expelled  the  life  out  of  it,  which  was  nothing  but  corruption. 

The  mother's  natural  pang  at  losing  this  poor  little  child  must 
have  been  increased  when  she  thought  of  her  rival  Frank  Esmond's 
wife,  who  was  a  favourite  of  the  whole  Court,  where  my  poor  Lady 
Castlewood  was  neglected,  and  who  had  one  child,  a  daughter, 
flourishing  and  beautiful,  and  was  about  to  become  a  mother  once 
more. 

The  Court,  as  I  have  heard,  only  laughed  the  more  because  the 
poor  lady,  who  had  pretty  well  passed  the  age  when  ladies  are 
accustomed  to  have  children,  nevertheless  determined  not  to  give 
hope  up,  and  even  when  she  came  to  live  at  Castlewood,  was  con- 
stantly sending  over  to  Hexton  for  the  doctor,  and  announcing  to 
her  friends  the  arrival  of  an  heir.  This  absurdity  of  hers  was  one 
amongst  many  others  which  the  wags  used  to  play  upon.  Indeed, 
to  the  last  days  of  her  life,  my  Lady  Viscountess  liad  tlie  comfort 
of  fancying  herself  beautiful,  and  persisted  in  blooming  up  to  the 
very  midst  of  winter,  painting  roses  on  her  cheeks  long  after  tlieir 
natural  season,  and  attiring  herself  like  summer  though  her  head 
was  covered  with  snow. 

Gentlemen  who  were  about  the  Court  of  King  Charles,  and  King 
James,  have  toid  the  present  writer  a  number  of  stories  about  this 
queer  old  lady,  with  which  it's  not  necessary  that  posterity  should 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY    ESMOND  53 

be  entertained.  She  is  said  to  have  had  great  powers  of  invective ; 
and,  if  she  fought  with  all  her  rivals  in  King  James's  favour,  'tis 
certain  she  must  have  had  a  vast  number  of  quarrels  on  her  hands. 
She  was  a  woman  of  an  intrepid  spirit,  and,  it  appears,  pursued  and 
rather  fatigued  his  Majesty  with  her  rights  and  her  wrongs.  Some 
say  that  the  cause  of  her  leaving  Court  was  jealousy  of  Frank 
Esmond's  wife ;  others,  that  she  was  forced  to  retreat  after  a  great 
battle  which  took  place  at  Whitehall,  between  her  Ladyship  and 
Lady  Dorchester,  Tom  Killigrew's  daughter,  whom  the  King 
delighted  to  honour,  and  in  which  that  ill-favoured  Esther  got  the 
better  of  our  elderly  Vashti.  But  her  Ladyship,  for  her  part, 
always  averred  that  it  was  her  husband's  quarrel,  and  not  her  own, 
which  occasioned  the  banishment  of  the  two  into  the  countr}^;  and 
the  cruel  ingratitude  of  the  Sovereign  in  giving  away,  out  of  the 
family,  that  place  of  Warden  of  the  Butteries  and  Groom  of  the 
King's  Posset,  which  the  two  last  Lords  Castle  wood  had  held  so 
lionourably,  and  which  was  now  conferred  upon  a  fellow  of  yester- 
day, and  a  hanger-on  of  that  odious  Dorchester  creature,  my  Lord 
Bergamot;^  "I  never,"  said  mv  Lady,  "could  have  come  to  see  his 
Majesty's  posset  carried  by  any  other  hand  than  an  Esmond.  I 
should  have  dashed  the  salver  out  of  Lord  Bergamot's  hand,  had  I 
met  him."  And  those  who  knew  her  Ladyship  are  aware  that  she 
was  a  person  quite  capable  of  performing  this  feat,  had  she  not 
wisely  kept  out  of  the  wa}'. 

Holding  the  purse-strings  in  her  own  control,  to  which,  indeed,  \  \ 
she  liked  to  bring  most  persons  who  came  near  her,  Lady  Castle- 
wood  could  command  her  husband's  obedience,  and  so  broke  up  her 
establishment  at  London;  she  had  removed  from  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields  to-Chelsey,  to  a  pretty  new  house  she  bought  there;  and 
brought  her  establishment,  her  maids,  lapdogs,  and  gentlewomen, 

1  Lionel  Tipton,  created  Baron  Bergamot,  ann.  1686,  Gentleman  Usher  of  the 
Back  Stairs,  and  afterwax'ds  appointed  Warden  of  the  Butteries  and  Groom  of 
the  King's  Posset  (on  the  decease  of  George,  second  Viscount  Castlevvood), 
accompanied  his  Majesty  to  St.  Germain's,  where  he  died  v.-ithout  issue.  No 
Groom  of  the  Posset  was  appointed  oy  the  Prince  of  Orange,  nor  hath  there 
been  such  an  ofilcer  in  any  succeeding  reign- 


y 


54  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

her  priest,  and  his  Lordship  her  husband,  to  Castlewood  Hall,  that 
she  had  never  seen  since  she  quitted  it  as  a  child  with  her  father 
during  the  troubles  of  King  Charles  the  First's  reign.  The  walls 
were  still  open  in  the  old  house  as  they  had  been  left  by  the  shot  of 
the  Commonwealth- men.  A  part  of  the  mansion  was  restored  and 
furbished  up  with  the  plate,  hangings,  and  furniture  brought  from 
the  house  in  London.  My  Lady  meant  to  have  a  triumphal  entry 
into  Castlewood  village,  and  expected  the  people  to  cheer  as  she 
drove  over  the  Green  in  her  great  coach,  my  Lord  beside  her,  her 
gentlewomen,  lapdogs,  and  cockatoos  on  the  opposite  seat,  six 
horses  to  her  carriage,  and  servants  armed  and  mounted  following 
it  and  preceding  it.  But  'twas  in  the  height  of  the  No-Popery  cry; 
the  folks  in  the  village  and  the  neighbouring  town  were  scared  by 
the  sight  of  her  Ladyship's  painted  face  and  eyelids,  as  she  bobbed 
her  head  out  of  the  coach  window,  meaning,  no  doubt,  to  be  very 
gracious;  and  one  old  woman  said,  "Lady  Isabel!  lord-a-mercy,  it's 
Lad}^  Jezebel!"  a  name  by  which  the  enemies  of  the  right  honour- 
able Viscountess  were  afterwards  in  the  habit  of  designating  her. 
The  country  was  then  in  a  great  No-Popery  fervour;  her  Ladyship's 
known  conv^ersion,  and  her  husband's,  the  priest  in  her  train,  and 
the  service  performed  at  the  chapel  of  Castlewood  (though  the 
chapel  had  been  built  for  that  worship  before  any  other  was  heard 
of  in  the  country,  and  though  the  service  was  performed  in  the 
most  quiet  manner),  got  her  no  favour  at  first  in  the  county  or  vil- 
lage. By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  estate  of  Castlewood  had  been 
confiscated,  and  been  parcelled  out  to  Commonwealth-men.  One  or 
two  of  these  old  Cromwellian  soldiers  were  still  alive  in  the  village, 
and  looked  grimly  at  first  upon  my  Lady  Viscountess,  when  she 
came  to  dwell  there. 

She  appeared  at  the  Hexton  Assembly,  bringing  her  lord  after 
her,  scaring  the  country  folks  with  the  splendour  of  her  diamonds, 
which  she  always  wore  in  public.  They  said  she  wore  them  in 
private,  too,  and  slept  with  them  round  her  "neck;  though  the 
writer  can  pledge  his  word  that  this  was  a  calumny.  "If  she  were 
to  take  them  off,"  my  Ladj'  Sark  said,  "Tom  Esmond,  her  hus- 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  55 

band,  would  run  away  with  them  and  pawn  them.''  'Twas  another 
calumny.  My  Lady  Sark  was  also  an  exile  from  Court,  and  there 
had  been  war  between  the  two  ladies  before. 

The  village  people  began  to  be  reconciled  presently  to  their 
lady,  who  was  generous  and  kind,  though  fantastic  and  haughty,  in 
her  ways,  and  whose  praises  Doctor  Tusher,  the  Vicar,  sounded 
loudly  amongst  his  flock.  As  for  my  Lord,  he  gave  no  great 
trouble,  being  considered  scarce  more  than  an  appendage  to  my 
Lady,  who,  as  daughter  of  the  old  lords  of  Castlewood,  and  possessor  . 
of  vast  wealth,  as  the  country  folk  said  (though  indeed  nine-tenths 
of  it  existed  but  in  rumour),  was  looked  upon  as  the  real  queen  of/  i 
the  castle,  and  mistress  of  all  it  contained,  ' ' 


CHAPTER    III 

WHITHER  IN   THE  TIME   OF  THOMAS,    THIRD  VISCOUNT,    I   HAD 
PRECEDED  HIM  AS  PAGE  TO   ISABELLA 

Coming  up  to  London  again  some  short  time  after  this  retreat, 
the  Lord  Castle  wood  despatched  a  retainer  of  his  to  a  little  cottage 
in  the  village  of  Ealing,  near  to  London,  where  for  some  time  had 
dwelt  an  old  French  refugee,  b}^  name  Mr.  Pastoureau,  one  of  those 
whom  the  persecution  of  the  Huguenots  by  the  French  king  had 
brought  over  to  this  country.  With  this  old  man  lived  a  little  lad, 
who  went  by  the  name  of  Henry  Thomas.  He  remembered  to  have 
lived  in  another  place  a  short  time  before,  near  to  London  too, 
amongst  looms  and  spinning-wheels,  and  a  great  deal  of  psalm-sing- 
ing and  church-going,  and  a  whole  colony  of  Frenchmen. 

There  he  had  a  dear,  dear  friend,  who  died,  and  whom  be  called 
Aunt.  She  used  to  visit  him  in  his  dreams  sometimes ;  and  her 
face,  though  it  was  homely,  was  a  thousand  times  dearer  to  him 
than  that  of  Mrs.  Pastoureau,  Bon  Papa  Pastoureau's  new  wife, 
who  came  to  live  with  him  after  aunt  went  away.  And  there,  at 
Spittlefields,  as  it  used  to  be  called,  lived  Uncle  George,  who  was  a 
weaver  too,  but  used  to  tell  Harry  that  he  was  a  little  gentleman, 
and  that  his  father  was  a  captain,  and  his  mother  an  angel. 

When  he  said  so,  Bon  Papa  used  to  look  up  from  the  loom,  wiiere 
he  was  embroidering  beautiful  silk  flowers,  and  say  "Angel!  she 
belongs  to  the  Babylonish  scarlet  woman."  Bon  Papa  was  always 
talking  of  the  scarlet  woman.  He  had  a  little  room  where  he 
always  used  to  preach  and  sing  hymns  out  of  his  great  old  nose. 
Little  Harry  did  not  like  the  preaching :  he  liked  better  the  fine 
stories  which  aunt  used  to  tell  him.  Bon  Papa's  wife  never  told 
him  pretty  stories ;  she  quarrelled  with  Uncle  George,  and  he  went 
away. 

56 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  67 

After  this,  Harry's  Bon  Papa  and  his  wife  and  two  children  of 
her  [own  that  she  brought  with  her,  came  to  live  at  Ealing.  The 
new  wife  gave  her  children  the  best  of  everything  and  Httrry  many 
a  whipping,  he  knew  not  why.  Besides  blows,  he  got  ill  names 
from  her,  which  need  not  be  set  down  here,  for  the  sake  of  old  Mr. 
Pastoureau,  who  was  still  kind  sometimes.  The  unhappiness  of 
those  days  is  long  forgiven,  though  they  cast  a  shade  of  melancholy 
over  the  child's  youth,  which  will  accompany  him,  no  doubt,  to  the 
end  of  his  days:  as  those  tender  twigs  are  bent  the  trees  grow  after- 
ward ;  and  he,  at  least,  who  has  suffered  as  a  child,  and  is  not  quite 
perverted  in  that  early  school  of  unhappiness,  learns  to  be  gentle 
and  long-suffering  with  little  children. 

Harry  was  very  glad  when  a  gentleman  dressed  in  black,  on 
horseback,  with  a  mounted  servant  behind  him,  came  to  fetch  him 
away  from  Ealing.  The  noverca,  or  unjust  step-mother,  who  had 
neglected  him  for  her  own  two  children,  gave  him  supper  enough 
the  night  before  he  went  away,  and  plenty  in  the  morning.  She 
did  not  beat  him  once,  and  told  the  children  to  keep  their  hands  off 
him.  One  was  a  girl,  and  Harry  never  could  bear  to  strike  a  girl ; 
and  the  other  was  a  boy,  whom  he  could  easily  have  beat,  but  he 
always  cried  out,  when  Mrs.  Pastoureau  came  sailing  to  the  rescue 
with  arms  like  a  flail.  She  only  washed  Harry's  face  the  day  he 
went  away ;  nor  ever  so  much  as  once  boxed  his  ears.  She  whim- 
pered rather  when  the  gentleman  in  black  came  for  the  boy ;  and 
old  Mr.  Pastoureau,  as  he  gave  the  child  his  blessing,  scowled  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  strange  gentleman,  and  grumbled  out  something 
abput  Babylon  and  the  scarlet  lady.  He  was  grown  quite  old,  like  a 
child  almost.  Mrs.  Pastoureau  used  to  wipe  his  nose  as  she  did  to 
the  children.  She  was  a  great,  big,  handsome  young  woman ;  but, 
though  she  pretended  to  cry,  Harry  thought  'twas  only  a  sham,  and 
sprang  quite  delighted  upon  the  horse  upon  which  the  lacquey 
helped  him. 

He  was  a  Frenchman ;  his  name  was  Blaise.  The  cliild  could 
talk  to  him  in  his  own  language  perfectly  well:  he  knew  it  better 
than  English  indeed,  having  lived  hitherto  chiefly  among  French 

I 


58  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

people:  and  being  called  the  Little  Frenchman  by  other  boys  on 
Ealing  Green,  He  soon  learnt  to  speak  English  perfectly,  and  to 
forget  some  of  his  French:  children  forget  easily.  Some  earlier 
and  fainter  recollections  the  child  had  of  a  different  country ;  and  a 
town  with  tall  white  houses;  and  a  ship.  But  these  were  quite 
indistinct  in  the  boy's  mind,  as  indeed  the  memory  of  Ealing  soon 
became,  at  least  of  much  that  he  suffered  there. 

The  lacquey  before  whom  he  rode  was  very  lively  and  voluble, 
and  informed  the  boy  that  the  gentleman  riding  before  him  was  my 
lord's  chaplain.  Father  Holt — that  he  was  now  to  be  called  blaster 
Harry  Esmond — that  my  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood  was  his 
2}an'ain — that  he  was  to  live  at  the  great  liovise  of  Castlewood,  in 
tiie  province  of shire,  where  he  would  see  Madame  the  Viscoun- 
tess, who  was  a  grand  lady.  And  so,  seated  on  a  cloth  before 
Blaise's  saddle,  Harry  Esmond  was  brought  to  London,  and  to  a  fine 
square  called  Covent  Garden,  near  to  which  his  patron  lodged. 

Mr.  Holt,  the  priest,  took  the  child  by  the  hand,  and  brought 
him  to  this  nobleman,  a  grand  languid  nobleman  in  a  great  cap  and 
flowered  morning-gown,  sucking  oranges.  He  patted  Harry  on  the 
head  and  gave  him  an  orange. 

"C'est  bien  §a,"  he  said  to  the  priest  after  eyeing  the  child,  and 
the  gentleman  in  black  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Let  Blaise  take  him  out  for  a  holiday,''  and  out  for  a  holiday 
the  boy  and  the  valet  w^ent.     Harry  went  jumping  along;   he  was' 
glad  enough  to  go. 

He  will  remember  to  his  life's  end  the  delights  of  those  days. 
He  %vas  taken  to  see  a  play  by  Monsieur  Blaise,  in  a  house  a  thou- 
sand times  greater  and  finer  than  the  booth  at  Ealing  Fair — and  on 
the  next  happy  day  they  took  water  on  the  river  and  Harry  saw 
London  Bridge,  with  the  houses  and  booksellers'  shops  thereon, 
looking  like  a  street,  and  the  Tower  of  London,  with  the  armour, 
and  the  great  lions  and  bears  in  the  moat— all  under  company  of 
Monsieur  Blaise. 

Presently,  of  an  early  morning,  all  the  party  set  forth  for  the  coun- 
try, namely,  my  Lord  Viscount  and  the  other  gentleman;  Monsieur 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  59 

Blaise  and  Harry  on  a  pillion  behind  them,  and  two  or  three  men 
with  pistols  leading  the  baggage- horses.  And  all  along  the  road 
the  Frenchman  told  little  Harry  stories  of  brigands,  which  made 
the  child's  hair  stand  on  end,  and  terrified  him ;  so  that  at  the  great 
gloomy  inn  on  the  road  where  they  lay,  he  besought  to  be  allowed 
to  sleep  in  a  room  with  one  of  the  servants,  and  was  compassionated 
by  Mr.  Holt,  the  gentleman  who  travelled  with  my  lord,  and  wlio 
gave  the  child  a  little  bed  in  his  chamber. 

His  artless  talk  and  answers  very  likely  inclined  this  gentleman 
in  the  boy's  favom*,  for  next  day  Mr.  Holt  said  Harry  should  ride 
behind  him,  and  not  with  the  French  lacquey;  and  all  along  the 
journey  put  a  thousand  questions  to  the  child — as  to  his  foster- 
brother  and  relations  at  Ealing;  what  his  old  grandfather  had 
taught  him ;  what  languages  he  knew ;  whether  he  could  read  and 
write,  and  sing,  and  so  forth.  And  Mr.  Holt  found  that  Harry 
could  read  and  write,  and  possessed  the  two  languages  of  French 
and  English  very  well;  and  when  he  asked  Harry  about  singing, 
'  the  lad  broke  out  with  a  hymn  to  the  tune  of  Dr.  Martin  Luther, 
I  which  set  Mr.  Holt  a-laughing;  and  even  caused  his  grand  parr ain 
in  the  laced  hat  and  periwig  to  laugh  too  when  Holt  told  him  what 
the  child  was  singing.  For  it  appeared  that  Dr.  Martin  Luther's 
hymns  were  not  sung  in  the  churches  Mr.  liolt  preached  at. 

"You  must  never  sing  that  song  any  more:  do  you  hear,  little 
mannikin?"  says  my  Lord  Viscount,  holding  up  a  finger. 

"But  we  will  try  and  teach  you  a  better,  Harry,"  Mr.  Holt  said; 
and  the  child  answered,  for  he  was  a  docile  child,  and  of  an  affec- 
tionate nature,  "that  he  loved  pretty  songs,  and  would  try  and  learn 
anything  the  gentleman  would  tell  him."  That  day  he  so  pleased 
the  gentlemen  by  his  talk,  that  they  had  him  to  dine  with  them  at 
the  inn,  and  encouraged  him  in  his  prattle ;  and  Monsieur  Blaise, 
with  whom  he  rode  and  dined  the  day  before,  waited  upon  him  now. 

"  'Tis  well,  'tis  well!"  said  Blaise,  that  night  (in  his  own  lan- 
guage) when  they  lay  again  at  an  inn.  "We  are  a  little  lord  here; 
we  are  a  little  lorl  now:  we  shall  see  what  we  are  when  we  come 
to  Castle  wood,  where  my  Lady  is." 


60  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

*'When  shall  we  come  to  Castle  wood,  Monsieur  Blaise?"  says 
Harry. 

''Parhleu!  my  Lord  does  not  press  himself,"  Blaise  says,  with  a 
grin ;  and,  indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  his  Lordship  was  not  in  a  great 
hurry,  for  he  spent  three  days  on  that  journey,  which  Harry 
Esmond  hath  often  since  ridden  in  a  dozen  hours.  For  the  last  two 
of  the  days  Harry  rode  with  the  priest,  who  was  so  kind  to  him, 
tiiat  the  child  had  grown  to  be  quite  fond  and  familiar  with 
him  by  the  journey's  end,  and  had  scarce  a  thought  in  his 
little  heart  which  by  that  time  he  had  not  confided  to  liis  new 
friend. 

At  length,  on  the  third  day,  at  evening,  they  came  to  a  village 
standing  on  a  green  with  elms  round  it,  very  pretty  to  look  at ;  and 
the  people  there  all  took  off  their  hats,  and  made  curtseys  to  my  Lord 
Viscount,  who  bowed  to  them  all  languidly ;  and  there  was  one 
portly  person  that  wore  a  cassock  and  a  broad-leafed  hat,  who 
bowed  lower  than  any  one — and  with  this  one  both  my  Lord  and  Mr. 
Holt  had  a  few  words.  "This,  Harry,  is  Castle  wood  church,"  says 
Mr.  Holt,  "and  this  is  the  pillar  thereof,  learned  Doctor  Tusher. 
Take  off  your  hat,  sirrah,  and  salute  Doctor  Tusher!" 

"Come  up  to  supper,  Doctor,"  says  my  Lord;  at  which  tlie  Doc- 
tor made  another  low  bow,  and  the  party  moved  on  towards  a  grand 
house  that  was  before  them,  with  many  grey  towers  and  vanes  on 
them,  and  windows  flaming  in  the  sunshine ;  and  a  great  army  of 
rooks,  wheeling  over  their  heads,  made  for  the  woods  behind  the 
house,  as  Harry  saw;  and  Mr.  Holt  told  him  that  the}'  lived  at 
Castlewood  too. 

They  came  to  the  house,  and  passed  under  an  arch  into  a  court 
yard,  with  a  fountain  in  the  centre,  where  many  men  came  and 
held  my  Lord's  stirrup  as  he  descended,  and  paid  great  respect  to 
Mr.  Holt  likewise.  And  the  child  thought  that  the  servants  looked 
at  him  curiously,  and  smiled  to  one  another — and  he  recalled  what 
Blaise  Had  said  to  him  when  they  were  in  London,  and  Harry  had 
spoken  about  his  godpapa,  when  the  Frenchman  said,  ''Parbleu, 
one  sees  well  that  my  Lord  is  your  godfather;"  words  whereof  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  61 

poor  lad  did  not  know  the  meaning  then,  though  he  apprehended 
the  truth  in  a  very  short  time  afterwards,  and  learned  it,  and 
thought  of  it  with  no  small  feeling  of  shame. 

Taking  Harry  by  the  hand  as  soon  as  they  were  both  descended 
from  tlieir  horses,  Mr.  Holt  led  him  across  the  court,  and  under  a  low 
door  to  rooms  on  a  level  with  the  ground;  one  of  vviiicli  Father  Holt 
said  was  to  be  the  boy's  chamber,  the  other  on  the  otlier  side  of  the 
passage  being  the  Father's  own ;  and  as  soon  as  the  little  man's  face 
was  washed,  and  the, Father's  own  dress  arranged,  Harry's  guide 
took  him  once  more  to  the  door  by  which  my  Lord  had  entered  the 
hall,  and  up  a  stair,  and  through  an  ante-room  to  my  Lady's  draw- 
ing-room— an  apartment  than  which  Harry  thought  he  had  never 
seen  anything  more  grand — no,  not  in  the  Tower  of  London  which 
he  had  just  visited.  Indeed,  the  chamber  was  richly  ornamented  in 
the  manner  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  with  great  stained  windows 
at  either  end,  and  hangings  of  tapestry,  which  the  sun  shining 
through  the  coloured  glass  painted  of  a  thousand  hues;  and  here  in 
state,  by  the  fire,  sate  a  lady,  to  whom  the  priest  took  up  Harry, 
1  who  was  indeed  amazed  by  her  appearance. 

My  Lady  Viscountess's  face  was  daubed  with  white  and  red  up 
to  the  eyes,  to  which  the  paint  gave  an  unearthly  glare:  she  had  a 
tower  of  lace  on  her  head,  under  which  was  a  bush  of  black  curls — 
borrowed  curls — so  that  no  wonder  little  Harry  Esmond  was  scared 
when  he  was  first  presented  to  her — the  kind  priest  acting  as  mas- 
ter of  the  ceremonies  at  that  solemn  introduction — and  he  stared  at 
her  with  eyes  almost  as  great  as  her  own,  as  he  had  stared  at  the 
player-woman  w^ho  acted  the  wicked  tragedy-queen,  when  the  play- 
ers came  down  to  Ealing  Fair.  She  sate  in  a  great  chair  by  the 
fire-corner ;  in  her  lap  was  a  spaniel  dog  that  barked  furiously ;  on  a 
little  table  by  her  was  her  Ladyship's  snuffbox  and  her  sugar-plum 
box.  She  wore  a  dress  of  black  velvet,  and  a  petticoat  of  flame- 
coloured  brocade.  She  had  as  many  rings  on  her  fingers  as  the  old 
woman  of  Banbury  Cross ;  and  pretty  small  feet  which  she  was  fond 
of  showing,  with  great  gold  clocks  to  her  stockings,  and  white  pan- 
toties  with  red  heels;   and  an  odour  of  musk  was  shook  out  of 


62  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

her  garments  whenever  she  moved  or  quitted  the  room,  leaning 
on  her  tortoiseshell  stick,  little  Fury  barking  at  her  heels. 

Mrs.  Tusher,  the  parson's  wife,  was  with  my  Lady.  She  had 
been  waiting-woman  to  her  Ladyship  in  the  late  Lord's  time,  and, 
having  her  soul  in  that  business,  took  naturally  to  it  when  the 
Viscountess  of  Castlewood  returned  to  inhabit  her  father's  house. 

"I  present  to  your  Ladyship  your  kinsman  and  little  page  of 
honour,  Master  Henry  Esmond,"  Mr.  Holt  said,  bowing  lowly,  with 
a  sort  of  comical  humility.  "Make  a  pretty  bow  to  my  Lady,  Mon- 
sieur; and  then  another  little  bow,  not  so  low,  to  Madame  Tusher — 
the  fair  priestess  of  Castlewood." 

"Where  I  have  lived  and  hoped  to  die,  sir,"  says  Madame  Tusher, 
giving  a  hard  glance  at  the  brat,  and  then  at  my  Lady. 

Upon  her  the  boy's  whole  attention  was  for  a  time  directed.  He 
could  not  keep  his  great  eyes  off  from  her.  Since  the  Empress  of 
Ealing,  he  had  seen  nothing  so  awful. 

"Does  my  appearance  please  you,  little  page?"  asked  the  lady. 

"He  would  be  very  hard  to  please  if  it  didn't,"  cried  Madame 
Tusher. 

"Have  done,  you  silly  Maria,"  said  Lady  Castlewood. 

"Where  I'm  attached,  I'm  attached,  Madame — and  I'd  die  rather 
than  not  say  so." 

"Je  meurs  oii  je  m'attache,"  Mr.  Holt  said  with  a  polite  grin. 
"The  ivy  says  so  in  tho  picture,  and  clings  to  the  oak  like  a  fond 
parasite  as  it  is." 

"Parricide,  sir!"  cries  Mrs.  Tusher. 

"Hush,  Tusher — you  are  always  bickering  with  Father  Holt," 
cried  mj  Lady.  "Come  and  kiss  my  hand,  child;"  and  the  oak 
held  out  a  branch  to  little  Harry  Esmond,  who  took  and  dutifully 
ki.jsed  the  lean  old  hand,  upon  the  gnarled  knuckles  of  which 
there  glittered  a  hundred  rings. 

"To  kiss  that  hand  would  make  many  a  pretty  fellow  happy!" 
cried  Mrs.  Tusher;  on  which  my  Lad}^  crying  out  "Go,  you  foolish 
Tusher!"  and  tapping  her  with  her  great  fan,  Tuslier  ran  forward 
to  seize  her  hand  and  kiss  it.     Fury  arose  and  barked  furiously  at 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  63 

Tuslier ;  and  Father  Holt  looked  on  at  this  queer  scene,  with  arch, 
grave  glances. 

The  awe  exhibited  by  the  little  boy  perhaps  pleased  the  lady  on 
whom  this  artless  flattery  was  bestowed ;  for  having  gone  down  on 
his  knee  (as  Father  Holt  had  directed  him,  and  the  mode  then  was) 
and  performed  his  obeisance,  she  said,  "Page  Esmond,  my  groom  of 
the  chamber  will  inform  you  what  your  duties  are,  when  you  wait 
upon  my  Lord  and  me ;  and  good  Father  Holt  will  instruct  you  as 
becomes  a  gentleman  of  our  name.  You  will  pay  him  obedience  in 
everything,  and  I  pray  you  may  grow  to  be  as  learned  and  as  good 
as  your  tutor." 

The  lady  seemed  to  have  the  greatest  reverence  for  Mr.  Holt, 
and  to  be  more  afraid  of  him  than  of  anything  else  in  the  world. 
If  she  was  ever  so  angry,  a  word  or  look  from  Father  Holt  made 
her  calm:  indeed  he  had  a  vast  power  of  subjecting  those  who 
came  near  him;  and,  among  the  rest,  his  new  pupil  gave  himself 
up  with  an  entire  confidence  and  attachment  to  the  good  Father, 
and  became  his  willing  slave  almost  from  the  first  moment  he  saw 
him. 

He  put  his  small  hand  into  the  Father's  as  he  walked  away  from 
his  first  presentation  to  his  mistress,  and  asked  many  questions  in 
his  artless  childish  way.  "Who  is  that  other  woman?"  he  asked. 
"She  is  fat  and  round;  she  is  more  pretty  than  my  Lady  Castle- 
wood." 

"She  is  Madame  Tusher,  the  parson's  wife  of  Castle  wood.  She 
has  a  son  of  your  age,  but  bigger  than  you." 

"Why  does  she  like  so  to  kiss  my  Lady's  hand?  It  is  not  good 
to  kiss." 

"Tastes  are  different,  little  man.  Madame  Tusher  is  attached  to 
my  Lady,  having  been  her  waiting-woman  before  she  was  married, 
in  the  old  lord's  time.  She  married  Doctor  Tusher  the  chaplain. 
The  English  household  divines  often  marry  the  waiting-women." 

"You  will  not  marry  the  Frenchwoman,  will  you?  I  saw  her 
laughing  with  Blaise  in  the  buttery. ' ' 

"I  belong  to  a  Church  that  is  older  and  better  than  the  English 


64  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESlilOND 

Church,"  Mr.  Holt  said  (making  a  sign  whereof  Esmond  did  not 
then  understand  the  meaning,  across  his  breast  and  forehead);  "in 
our  Church  the  clergy  do  not  marry.  You  will  understand  these 
things  better  soon." 

"Was  not  Saint  Peter  the  head  of  your  Church? — Dr.  Rabbits  of 
Ealing  told  us  so." 

The  Father  said,  "Yes,  he  was." 

"But  Saint  Peter  was  married,  for  we  heard  only  last  Sunday 
that  his  wife's  mother  lay  sick  of  the  fever."  On  which  the  Father 
again  laughed,  and  said  he  would  understand  this  too  better  soon, 
and  talked  of  other  things,  and  took  away  Harry  Esmond,  and 
showed  him  the  great  old  house  which  he  had  come  to  inhabit. 

It  stood  on  a  rising  green  hill,  with  woods  behind  it,  in  which 
were  rooks'  nests,  where  the  birds  at  morning  and  returning  home 
at  evening  made  a  great  cawing.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  was  a 
river,  with  a  steep  ancient  bridge  crossing  it ;  and  beyond  that  a 
large  pleasant  green  flat,  where  the  village  of  Castlewood  stood, 
and  stands,  with  the  church  in  the  midst,  the  parsonage  hard  by  it, 
the  inn  with  the  blacksmith's  forge  beside  it,  and  the  sign  of  the 
"Three  Castles"  on  the  elm.  The  London  road  stretched  away 
towards  the  rising  sun,  and  to  the  west  were  swelling  hills  and 
peaks,  behind  which  many  a  time  Harry  Esmond  saw  the  same  sun 
setting,  that  he  now  looks  on  thousands  of  miles  away  across  the 
great  ocean— in  a  new  Castlewood,  by  another  stream,  that  bears, 
like  the  new  country  of  wandering  xEneas,  the  fond  names  of  the 
land  of  his  youth. 

The  Hall  of  Castlewood  was  built  with  two  courts,  whereof  one 
only,  the  fountain-court,  was  now  inhabited,  the  other  having  been 
battered  down  in  the  Cromwellian  wars.  In  the  fountain-court, 
still  in  good  repair,  was  the  great  hall,  near  to  the  kitchen  and 
butteries;  a  dozen  of  living-rooms  looking  to  the  north,  and  com- 
municating with  the  little  chapel  that  faced  eastwards  and  the 
buildings  stretching  from  that  to  the  main  gate,  and  with  the  hall 
(which  looked  to  the  west)  into  the  court  now  dismantled.  This 
court  had  l)een  the  most  magnificent  of  tlie  two.  until   the  Protec 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  65 

tor's  cannon  tore  down  one  side  of  it  before  the  place  was  taken 
and  stormed.  The  besiegers  entered  at  the  terrace  under  the  clock- 
tower,  slaying  every  man  of  the  garrison,  and  at  their  head  my 
Lord's  brother,  Francis  Esmond. 

Tiie  Restoration  did  not  bring  enough  money  to  the  Lord  Castle- 
wood  to  restore  this  ruined  part  of  his  house;  where  were  the 
morning  parlours,  above  tliem  the  long  music-gallery,  and  before 
which  stretched  the  garden-terrace,  where,  however,  the  flowers 
grew  again  which  the  boots  of  the  Roundheads  had  trodden  in  their 
assault,  and  which  was  restored  without  much  cost,  and  only  a 
little  care,  by  both  ladies  who  succeeded  the  second  viscount  in  the 
government  of  this  mansion.  Round  the  terrace  garden  was  a  low 
wall  with  a  wicket  leading  to  the  wooded  height  beyond,  that  is 
called  Cromwell's  Battery  to  this  day. 

Young  Harry  Esmond  learned  the  domestic  part  of  his  duty, 
which  was  easy  enough,  from  the  groom  of  her  Ladyship's 
chamber:  serving  the  Countess,  as  the  custom  commonly  was  in  his 
boyhood,  as  page,  waiting  at  her  chair,  bringing  her  scented  water 
and  the  silver  basin  after  dinner—  sitting  on  her  carriage-step  on 
state  occasions,  or  on  public  days  introducing  her  company  to  her. 
This  was  chiefly  of  the  Catholic  gentry,  of  whom  there  were  a 
pretty  many  in  the  country  and  neighbouring  city ;  and  who  rode 
not  seldom  to  Castlewood  to  partake  of  the  hospitalities  there.  In 
the  second  year  of  their  residence,  the  company  seemed  especially 
to  increase.  My  Lord  and  my  Lady  were  seldom  without  visitors, 
in  whose  society  it  was  curious  to  contrast  the  difference  of 
behaviour  between  Father  Holt,  the  director  of  the  family,  and 
Doctor  Tusher,  the  rector  of  the  parish — Mr.  Holt  moving  amongst 
the  very  highest  as  quite  their  equal,  and  as  commanding  them  all; 
while  poor  Doctor  Tusher,  whose  position  was  indeed  a  difficult  one, 
having  been  chaplain  once  to  the  Hall,  and  still  to  the  Protestant 
servants  there,  seemed  more  like  an  uslier  than  an  equal,  and 
always  rose  to  go  away  after  the  first  course. 

Also  there  came  in  these  times  to  Father  Holt  many  private  vis- 
itors, whom,  after  a  little,  Henry  Esmond  had  little  difficulty  in 


66  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

recognising  as  ecclesiastics  of  the  Father's  persuasion,  whatever 
their  dresses  (and  they  adopted  all)  might  be.  These  were  closeted 
with  the  Father  constantly,  and  often  came  and  rode  away 
without  paying  their  devoirs  to  my  Lord  and  Lady — to  the  Lady 
and  Lord  rather — his  Lordship  being  little  more  than  a  cipher  in 
the  house,  and  entirely  under  his  domineering  partner.  A  little 
fowling,  a  little  hunting,  a  great  deal  of  sleep,  and  a  long  time  at 
cards  and  table,  carried  through  one  day  after  another  with  his 
Lordship.  When  meetings  took  place  in  this  second  year,  which 
often  would  happen  with  closed  doors,  the  page  found  my  Lord's 
sheet  of  paper  scribbled  over  with  dogs  and  horses,  and  'twas  said 
he  had  much  ado  to  keep  himself  awake  at  these  councils:  the 
Countess  ruling  over  them,  and  he  acting  as  little  more  than  her 
secretary. 

Father  Holt  began  speedily  to  be  so  much  occupied  with  these 
meetings  as  rather  to  neglect  the  education  of  the  little  lad  who  so 
gladly  put  himself  under  the  kind  priest's  orders.  At  first  they 
read  much  and  regularly,  both  in  Latin  and  French ;  the  Father  not 
neglecting  in  anything  to  impress  his  faith  upon  his  pupil,  but  not 
forcing  him  violently,  and  treating  him  with  a  delicacy  and  kind- 
ness wiiich  surprised  and  attached  the  child,  always  more  easily 
won  by  these  methods  than  bj^  any  severe  exercise  of  authority. 
And  his  delight  in  their  walks  was  to  tell  Harry  of  the  glories  of 
his  order,  of  its  martyrs  and  heroes,  of  its  Brethren  converting  the 
heathen  by  myriads,  traversing  the  desert,  facing  the  stake,  ruling 
the  courts  and  councils,  or  braving  the  tortures  of  kings;  so  that 
Harry  Esmond  thought  that  to  belong  to  the  Jesuits  was  the  great- 
est prize  of  life  and  bravest  end  of  ambition:  the  greatest  career 
here  and  in  heaven  the  surest  reward ;  and  began  to  long  for  the 
day,  not  only  when  he  should  enter  into  tlie  one  church  and  receive 
his  first  communion,  but  when  he  might  join  that  wonderful 
brotherhood,  which  was  present  throughout  all  the  world,  and 
wdiich  numbered  the  wisest,  the  bravest,  the  highest  born,  the  most 
eloquent  of  men  among  its  members.  Father  Holt  bade  him  keep 
his  views  secret,  and  to  hide  them  as  a  great  treasure  which  would 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  67 

escape  liim  if  it  was  revealed;  and,  proud  of  this  confidence  and 
secret  vested  in  him,  the  lad  became  fondly  attached  to  the  master 
who  initiated  him  into  a  mystery  so  wonderful  and  awful.  And 
when  little  Tom  Tusher,  his  neighbour,  came  from  school  for  his 
holiday,  and  said  how  he,  too,  was  to  be  bred  up  for  an  English 
priest,  and  would  get  what  he  called  an  exhibition  from  his  school, 
and  then  a  college  scholarship  and  fellowship,  and  then  a  good 
living — it  tasked  young  Harry  Esmond's  powers  of  reticence  not  to 
say  to  his  young  companion,  "Church!  priesthood!  fat  living!  My 
dear  Tommy,  do  you  call  yours  a  church  and  a  priesthood?  What 
is  a  fat  living  compared  to  converting  a  hundred  thousand  heathens 
by  a  single  sermon?  What  is  a  scholarship  at  Trinity  by  the  side  of 
a  crown  of  martyrdom,  with  angels  awaiting  you  as  your  head  is 
taken  ofi"?  Could  your  master  at  school  sail  over  the  Thames  on  his 
gown?  Have  you  statues  in  your  church  that  can  bleed,  speak, 
walk,  and  cry?  My  good  Tommy,  in  dear  Father  Holt's  church 
these  things  take  place  every  day.  You  know  Saint  Philip  of  the 
Willows  appeared  to  Lord  Castlewood,  and  caused  him  to  turn  to 
the  one  true  church.  No  saints  ever  come  to  you."  And  Harry 
Esmond,  because  of  his  promise  to  Father  Holt,  hiding  away  these 
treasures  of  faith  from  T.  Tusher,  delivered  himself  of  them  never- 
theless simply  to  Father  Holt;  who  stroked  his  head,  smiled  at  him 
with  his  inscrutable  look,  and  told  him  that  he  did  well  to  meditate 
on  these  great  things,  and  not  to  talk  of  them  except  undei 
direction. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  AM  PLACED  UNDER   A   POPISH    PRIEST   AND    BRED    TO   THAT 
RELIGION— VISCOUNTESS   CASTLEWOOD 

Had  time  enough  been  given,  and  his  childish  inclinations  been 
properly  nurtured,  Harry  Esmond  had  been  a  Jesuit  priest  ere  he 
was  a  dozen  years  older,  and  might  have  finished  his  days  a  martyr 
in  China  or  a  victim  on  Tower  Hill:  for,  in  the  few  months  they 
spent  together  at  Castlewood,  Mr.  Holt  obtained  an  entire  mastery 
over  the  boy's  intellect  and  affections;  and  had  brought  him  to 
think,  as  indeed  Father  Holt  thought  with  all  his  heart  too,  that  no 
life  was  so  noble,  no  death  so  desirable,  as  that  which  many 
brethren  of  his  famous  order  were  ready  to  undergo.  By  love,  by 
a  brightness  of  wit  and  good-humour  that  charmed  all,  by  an 
authority  which  he  knew  how  to  assume,  by  a  mystery  and  silence 
about  him  which  increased  the  child's  reverence  for  him,  he  won 
Harry's  absolute  fealty,  and  would  have  kept  it,  doubtless,  if 
schemes  greater  and  more  important  than  a  poor  little  boj-'s  admis- 
sion into  orders  had  not  called  him  av/ay. 

After  being  at  home  for  a  few  months  in  tranquillity  (if  theirs 
miglit  be  called  tranquillity,  which  was,  in  truth,  a  constant  bick- 
ering), my  Lord  and  Lady  left  the  country  for  London,  taking  their 
director  with  them:  and  his  little  pupil  scarce  ever  shed  more  bitter 
tears  in  his  life  than  he  did  for  nights  after  the  first  parting  with 
his  dear  friend,  as  he  lay  in  the  lonely  chamber  next  to  that  which 
the  Father  used  to  occupy.  He  and  a  few  domesfics  were  left  as 
the  only  tenants  of  the  great  house:  and,  though  Harrj'  sedulously 
did  all  the  tasks  which  the  Father  set  him.  he  had  many  hours 
unoccupied,  and  read  in  the  library,  and  bewildered  his  little  brains 
with  the  great  books  he  found  there. 

After  a  while,  the  little  lad  grew  accustomed  to  the  loneliness  of 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  69 

the  place ;  and  in  after  days  remembered  this  part  of  his  life  as  a 
period  not  unhappy.  When  the  family  was  at  London  the  whole  of 
the  establisliment  travelled  thither  with  tlie  exception  of  the 
porter — who  was,  moreover,  brewer,  gardener,  and  woodman — and 
his  wife  and  children.  These  had  their  lodging  in  the  gate-house 
hard  by,  with  a  door  into  the  court ;  and  a  window  looking  out  on 
the  green  was  the  Chaplain's  room ;  and  next  to  this  a  small  cham- 
ber where  Father  Holt  had  his  books,  and  Harry  Esmond  his 
sleeping  closet.  The  side  of  the  house  facing  the  east  had  escaped 
the  guns  of  the  Cromwellians,  whose  battery  was  on  the  height 
facing  the  western  court ;  so  that  this  eastern  end  bore  few  marks 
of  demolition,  save  in  the  chapel,  where  the  painted  "windows  sur- 
viving Edward  the  Sixth  had  been  broke  by  the  Commonwealth- 
men.  In  Father  Holt's  time  little  Harry  Esmond  acted  as  his 
familiar,  and  faithful  little  servitor;  beating  his  clothes,  folding 
his  vestments,  fetching  his  water  from  the  well  long  before  day- 
light, ready  to  run  anywhere  for  the  service  of  his  beloved  priest. 
When  the  Father  was  away,  he  locked  his  private  chamber ;  but 
tlie  room  where  the  books  were  was  left  to  little  Harry,  who,  but 
for  the  society  of  this  gentleman,  was  little  less  solitary  when  Lord 
Castlewood  was  at  home. 

The  French  wit  saith  that  a  hero  is  none  to  his  valet-de-ehainbre, 
and  it  required  less  quick  eyes  than  my  Lady's  little  page  was  nat- 
urally endowed  with,  to  see  that  she  had  many  qualities  by  no 
means  heroic,  however  much  Mrs.  Tusher  might  flatter  and  coax 
lier.  When  Father  Holt  was  not  by,  who  exercised  an  entire 
authority  over  the  pair,  my  Lord  and  my  Lady  quarrelled  and 
abused  each  other  so  as  to  make  the  servants  laugh,  and  to  frighten 
the  little  page  on  duty.  The  poor  boy  trembled  before  his  mistress, 
who  called  him  by  a  hundred  ugly  names,  who  made  nothing  of 
boxing  his  ears,  and  tilting  the  silver  basin  in  his  face  which  it  was 
his  business  to  present  to  her  after  dinner.  She  hath  repaired,  by 
subsequent  kindness  to  him,  these  severities,  which  it  must  be 
owned  made  his  childhood  very  unhappy.  She  was  but  unhappy 
herself  at  this  time,  poor  soul!  and  I  suppose  made  her  def)endants 


70  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND 

lead  her  own  sad  life.  I  think  my  Lord  was  as  much  afraid  of  het 
as  her  page  was,  and  the  only  person  of  the  household  who  mastered 
her  was  Mr.  Holt.  Harry  was  only  too  glad  when  the  Father  dined 
at  table,  and  to  slink  away  and  prattle  with  him  afterwards,  or  read 
with  him,  or  walk  with  him.  Luckily  my  Lady  Viscountess  did 
not  rise  till  noon.  Heaven  help  the  poor  waiting-woman  v.dio  had 
charge  of  her  toilette !  I  have  often  seen  the  poor  wretch  come  out 
with  red  eyes  from  the  closet  where  those  long  and  mysterious  rites 
of  her  Ladyship's  dress  were  performed,  and  the  backgammon-box 
locked  up  with  a  rap  on  Mrs.  Tusher's  fingers  when  slie  plaj'ed  ill, 
or  the  game  was  going  the  wrong  way. 

Blessed  be  the  king  wdio  introduced  cards,  and  the  kind  invent- 
ors of  piquet  and  cribbage,  for  they  emplo3'ed  six  hours  at  least  of 
her  Ladyship's  day,  during  which  her  family  was  pretty  easy. 
Without  this  occupation  my  Lady  frequently  declared  she  should 
die.  Her  dependants  one  after  another  relieved  guard — 'twas 
rather  a  dangerous  post  to  play  with  her  Ladyship— and  took  the 
cards  turn  about.  Mr.  Holt  w*ould  sit  with  her  at  piquet  during 
hours  together,  at  which  time  she  behaved  herself  properly ;  and  as 
for  Doctor  Tusher,  I  believe  he  would  have  left  a  parishioner's 
dying  bed,  if  summoned  to  play  a  rubber  with  his  patroness  at 
Castlewood.  Sometimes,  when  they  were  pretty  comfortable 
together,  my  Lord  took  a  hand.  Besides  these  my  Lady  had  her 
faithful  poor  Tusher,  and  one,  two,  three  gentlemen  whom  Harry 
Esmond  could  recollect  in  his  time.  They  could  not  bear  that 
genteel  service  very  long;  one  after  another  tried  and  failed  at  it. 
These  and  the  housekeeper,  and  little  Harry  Esmond,  had  a  table  of 
their  own.  Poor  ladies!  their  life  was  far  harder  than -the"  page's. 
He  was  sound  asleep,  tucked  in  his  little  bed,  whilst  they  were 
sitting  by  her  Ladyship  reading  her  to  sleep,  with  the  "News  Let- 
ter,*' or  the  "Grand  Cyrus."  My  Lady  used  to  have  boxes  of  new 
plays  from  London,  and  Harry  was  forbidden,  under  the  pain  of  a 
whipping,  to  look  into  them.  I  am  afraid  he  deserved  the  penalty 
pretty  often,  and  got  it  sometimes.  Father  Holt  applied  it  twice  or 
thrice,  when  he  caught  the  young  scapegrace  with  a  delightful 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  71 

wicked  comedy  of  Mr.  Shadwell's  or  Mr.  Wyclierley's  under  his 
pillow. 

These,  when  he  took  any,  were  my  Lord's  favourite  reading. 
But  he  was  averse  to  much  study,  and,  as  his  little  page  fancied,  to 
much  occupation  of  any  sort. 

It  always  seemed  to  young  Harry  Esmond  that  my  Lord  treated 
liim  with  more  kindness  when  his  lady  was  not  present,  and  Lord 
Castlewood  would  take  the  lad  sometimes  on  his  little  journeys 
a-hunting  or  a-birding;  he  loved  to  play  at  cards  and  tric-trac  with 
him,  which  games  the  boy  learned  to  pleasure  his  lord :  and  was 
growing  to  like  him  better  daily,  showing  a  special  pleasure  if 
Father  Holt  gave  a  good  report  of  him,  patting  him  on  the  head, 
and  promising  that  he  would  provide  for  the  boy.  However,  in  my 
Lady's  presence,  my  Lord  showed  no  such  marks  of  kindness,  and 
affected  to  treat  the  lad  roughly,  and  rebuked  him  sharply  for  little 
faults,  for  which  he  in  a  manner  asked  pardon  of  young  Esmond 
when  they  were  private,  saying  if  he  did  not  speak  roughly,  she 
would,  and  his  tongue  was  not  such  a  bad  one  as  his  lady's — a 
point  whereof  the  boy,  young  as  he  was,  was  very  well  assured. 

Great  public  events  were  happening  all  this  while,  of  which  the 
simple  young  page  took  little  count.  But  one  day,  riding  into  the 
neighbouring  town  on  the  step  of  my  Lady's  coach,  his  Lordship 
and  she  and  Father  Holt  being  inside,  a  great  mob  of  people  came 
hooting  and  jeering  round  the  coach,  bawling  out  "The  Bishops  for 
ever!"  "'Down  with  the  Pope!"  "No  Popery!  no  Popery!  Jezebel. 
Jezebel!"  so  that  my  Lord  began  to  laugh,  my  Lady's  eyes  to  roll 
with  anger,  for  she  was  as  bold  as  a  lioness,  and  feared  nobody ; 
whilst  Mr.  Holt,  as  Esmond  saw  from  his  j^lace  on  the  step,  sank 
back  with  rather  an  alarmed  face,  crying  out  to  her  Ladyship,  "For 
God's  sake,  madam,  do  not  speak  or  look  out  of  window;  sit  still." 
Bat  she  did  not  obey  this  prudent  injunction  of  the  Father;  she 
thrust  her  head  out  of  the  coach  window,  and  screamed  out  to  the 
coachman,  "Flog  your  way  through  them,  the  brutes,  James,  ana 
use  your  whip!*' 

The  mob  answered  with  a  roaring  jeer  of  laughter,  and  fresh 


72  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

cries  of  "Jezebel!  Jezebel!"  My  Lord  onh- laughed  the  more:  he 
was  a  languid  gentleman:  nothing  seemed  to  excite  him  commonly, 
though  I  have  seen  him  cheer  and  halloo  the  hounds  very  briskly, 
and  his  face  (which  was  generally  very  yellow  and  calm)  grow 
quite  red  and  cheerful  during  a  burst  over  the  Downs  after  a  hare, 
and  laugh,  and  swear,  and  huzzah  at  a  cock-fight,  of  whicli  sport 
he  was  very  fond.  And  now,  when  tlie  mob  began  to  hoot  his  lady, 
he  laughed  w^ith  something  of  a  mischievous  look,  as  though  he 
expected  sport,  and  thought  that  she  and  they  were  a  match. 

James  the  coachman  was  more  afraid  of  his  mistress  than  the 
mob,  probably,  for  he  whipped  on  his  horses  as  he  was  bidden,  and 
the  postboy  that  rode  with  the  first  pair  (my  Ladj' always  rode  with 
her  coach-and-six)  gaA'e  a  cut  of  his  thong  over  the  shoulders  of 
one  fellow  who  put  his  hand  out  towards  the  leading  horse's  rein. 

It  was  a  market-day,  and  the  country  people  were  all  assembled 
with  their  baskets  of  poultry,  eggs,  and  such  things ;  the  postillion 
had  no  sooner  lashed  the  man  who  would  have  taken  hold  of  his 
horse,  but  a  great  cabbage  came  whirling  like  a  bombshell  into  the 
carriage,  at  which  my  Lord  laughed  more,  for  it  knocked  my 
Lady's  fan  out  of  her  hand,  and  plumped  into  Father  Holt's 
stomach.     Then  came  a  shower  of  carrots  and  potatoes. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  be  still!'' says  Mr.  Holt;  "we  are  not  ten 
paces  from  the  "Bell'  archway,  where  they  can  shut  the  gates  on  us, 
and  keep  out  this  ca«az7Ze." 

The  little  page  was  outside  the  coach  on  the  step,  and  a  fellow 
in  the  crowd  aimed  a  potato  at  him,  and  hit  him  in  the  eye,  at 
which  the  poor  little  wretch  set  up  a  shout ;  the  man  laughed,  a 

great  big  saddler's  apprentice  of  the  town.     "Ah!  you  d little 

yelling  Popish  bastard, "  he  said,  and  stooped  to  pick  up  another; 
the  crowd  had  gathered  quite  between  the  horses  and  the  inn  door 
by  this  time,  and  the  coach  was  brought  to  a  dead  stand-still.  My 
Lord  jumped  as  briskly  as  a  boy  out  of  the  door  on  his  side  of  the  j 
coach,  squeezing  little  Harry  behind  it;  had  hold  of  the  potato- 
thrower's  collar  in  an  instant,  and  the  next  moment  the  brute's 
heels  were  in  the  air,  and  he  fell  on  the  stones  with  a  thump. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  73 

''You  hulking  coward!"  says  he;  "you  pack  of  screaming  black- 
guards! how  dare  you  attack  children,  and  insult  women?  Fling 
another  shot  at  that  carriage,  you  sneaking  pigskin  cobbler,  and  by 
the  Lord  I'll  send  my  rapier  through  you!" 

Some  of  the  mob  cried,  "Huzzah,  my  Lord!"  for  they  knew  him, 
and  the  saddler's  man  was  a  known  bruiser,  near  twice  as  big  as 
my  Lord  Viscount. 

"Make  way  there,"  says  he  (he  spoke  in  a  high  shrill  voice,  but 
with  a  great  air  of  authority).  "Make  way  and  let  her  Ladyship's 
carriage  pass."  The  men  that  were  between  the  coach  and  the  gate 
of  the  "Bell"  actually  did  make  way,  and  the  horses  went  in,  my 
Lord  walking  after  them  with  his  hat  on  his  head. 

As  he  was  going  in  at  the  gate,  through  which  the  coach  had 
just  rolled,  another  cry  begins,  of  "No  Popery — no  Papists!"  My 
Lord  turns  round  and  faces  them  once  more. 

"God  save  the  King!"  says  he  at  the  highest  pitch  of  bis  voice. 
"TVho  dares  abuse  the  King's  religion?  You,  you  d d  psalm- 
singing  cobbler,  as  sure  as  I'm  a  magistrate  of  this  country  I'll 
commit  you!"  The  fellow  shrank  back,  and  my  Lord  retreated 
with  all  the  honours  of  the  day.  But  when  the  little  flurry  caused 
by  the  scene  was  over,  and  the  flush  passed  off  his  face,  he  relapsed 
into  his  usual  languor,  trifled  with  his  little  dog,  and  yawned  when 
my  Lady  spoke  to  him. 

This  mob  w^as  one  of  many  thousands  that  were  going  about  the 
country  at  that  time,  huzzahing  for  the  acquittal  of  the  seven 
bishops  who  had  been  tried  just  then,  and  about  wliom  little  Harry 
Esmond  at  that  time  knew  scarce  anything.  It  was  Assizes  at 
Hexton,  and  there  was  a  great  meeting  of  the  gentry  at  the  "Bell" ; 
and  my  Lord's  people  had  their  new  liveries  on,  and  Harry  a  little 
suit  of  blue-and -silver,  which  he  wore  upon  occasions  of  state;  and 
the  gentlefolks  came  round  and  talked  to  my  Lord ;  and  a  judge  in 
a  red  gown,  who  seemed  a  very  great  personage,  especially  compli- 
mented  him  and  my  Lady,  who  was  might}^  grand.  Harry  remem- 
bers her  train  borne  up  by  her  gentlewoman.  There  was  an 
assembly  and  ball  at  the  great  room  at  the  "Bell,"  and  other  young 

OF    THE 


74  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

gentlemen  of  the  county  families  looked  on  as  he  did.  One  of 
them  jeered  him  for  his  black  eye,  which  was  swelled  by  the  potato, 
iand  another  called  him  a  bastard,  on  which  he  and  Harry  fell  to 
fisticuffs.  My  Lord's  cousin,  Colonel  Esmond  of  Walcote,  was 
there,  and  separated  the  two  lads— a  great  tall  gentlemen,  with  a 
handsome  good-natured  face.  The  boy  did  not  know  how  nearly  in 
after-life  he  should  be  allied  to  Colonel  Esmond,  and  how  much 
kindness  he  should  have  to  owe  him. 

There  was  little  love  between  the  two  families.  My  Lady  used 
not  to  spare  Colonel  Esmond  in  talking  of  him,  for  reasons  which 
have  been  hinted  already;  but  about  which,  at  his  tender  age, 
Henry  Esmond  could  be  expected  to  know  nothing. 

Very  soon  afterwards,  my  Lord  and  Lady  went  to  London  with 
Mr.  Holt,  leaving,  however,  the  page  behind  them.  The  little  man 
had  the  great  house  of  Castlewood  to  himself;  or  between  him  and 
the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Worksop,  an  old  lady  who  was  a  kinswoman 
of  the  family  in  some  distant  way,  and  a  Protestant,  but  a  staunch 
Tory  and  king's-man,  as  all  the  Esmonds  were.  He  used  to  go  to> 
school  to  Dr.  Tusher  when  he  was  at  home,  though  the  Doctor  w^as 
much  occupied  too.  There  was  a  great  stir  and  commotion  every- 
wdiere,  even  in  the  little  quiet  village  of  Castlewood,  whither  a 
party  of  people  came  from  the  town,  wdio  would  have  broken 
Castlewood  Chapel  windows,  but  the  village  people  turned  out,  and  1 
even  old  Sieveright,  the  republican  blacksmith,  along  with  them: 
for  my  Lady,  though  she  was  a  Papist,  and  had  many  odd  ways, , 
w^as  kind  to  the  tenantry,  and  there  w^as  always  a  plenty  of  beef, 
and  blankets,  and  medicine  for  the  poor  at  Castlewood  Hall. 

A  kingdom  was  changing  hands  whilst  my  Lord  and  Lady  were^ 
away.    King  James  was  flying,  the  Dutchmen  were  coming;  awful 

stories  about  them  and  the  Prince  of  Orange  used  old  Mrs.  Worksop 

to  tell  to  the  idle  little  page. 

He  liked  the  solitude  of  the  great  house  very  well ;  he  had  all 

the  play-books  to  read,   and  no  Father  Holt  to  whip  him,  and  a 

Hundred  childish  pursuits  and  pastimes,  without  doors  and  wuthin, 

whfch  made  this  time  very  pleasant. 


CHAPTER   V 

MY   SUPERIORS   ARE   ENGAGED  IN    PLOTS    FOR   THE     RESTORATION    OF 
KING  JAMES  THE   SECOND 

Not  having  been  able  to  sleep,  for  thinking  of  some  lines  for  eels 
which  he  had  placed  the  night  before,  the  lad  was  lying  in  his  little 
bed,  waiting  for  the  hour  when  the  gate  would  be  open,  and  he  and 
his  comrade,  John  Lockwood,  the  porter's  son,  might  go  to  the 
pond  and  see  what  fortune  had  brought  them.  At  daybreak,  John 
was  to  awaken  him,  but  his  own  eagerness  for  the  sport  had  served 
as  a  reveillez  long  since — so  long,  that  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  day 
never  would  come. 

It  might  have  been  four  o'clock  when  he  heard  the  door  of  the 
opposite  chamber,  the  Chaplain's  room,  open,  and  the  voice  of  a 
man  coughing  in  the  passage.  Harry  jumped  up,  thinking  for 
certain  it  was  a  robber,  or  hoping  perhaps  for  a  ghost,  and,  flinging 
open  his  own  door,  saw  before  him  the  Chaplain's  door  open,  and  a 
light  inside,  and  a  figure  standing  in  the  doorway,  in  the  midst  of 
a  great  smoke  which  issued  from  the  room. 

"Who's  there?''  cried  out  the  boy,  who  was  of  a  good  spirit. 

'' Silent ium."'  whispered  the  other;  "  'tis  I,  my  boy!"  and,  hold- 
ing his  hand  out,  Harry  had  no  difficult}^  in  recognising  his  master 
and  friend,  Father  Holt.  A  curtain  was  over  the  window  of  the- 
Chaplain's  room  that  looked  to  the  court,  and  Harry  saw  that  the 
smoke  came  from  a  great  flame  of  papers  which  were  burning  in  a 
brazier  when  he  entered  the  Chaplain's  room.  After  giving  a  hasty 
greeting  and  blessing  to  the  lad,  who  was  charmed  to  see  his  tutor, 
the  Father  continued  the  burning  of  his  papers,  drawing  them 
from  a  cupboard  over  the  mantelpiece  wall,  which  Harry  had  never 
iseen  before. 

Father  Holt  laughed,  seeing  the  lad's  attention  fixed  at  once  on. 

75 


76  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

this  hole.  "That  is  right,  Harry,"  he  said;  "faithful  little  famuli 
see  all  and  say  nothing.     You  are  faithful,  I  know." 

*'l  know  I  would  go  to  the  stake  for  you,"  said  Harry. 

*'I  don't  want  your  head,"  said  the  Father,  patting  it  kindly ; 
"all  you  have  to  do  is  to  hold  your  tongue.  Let  us  burn  these 
papers,  and  say  nothing  to  anybody.  Should  you  like  to  read 
them?" 

Harry  Esmond  blushed,  and  held  down  his  head ;  he  had  looked 
as  the  fact  w^as,  and  without  thinking,  at  the  paper  before  him ; 
and  though  he  had  seen  it,  could  not  understand  a  word  of  it,  the 
letters  being  quite  clear  enough,  but  quite  without  meaning.  They 
burned  the  papers,  beating  down  the  ashes  in  a  brazier,  so  that 
scarce  any  traces  of  them  remained. 

Harry  had  been  accustomed  to  see  Father  Holt  in  more  dresses 
than  one ;  it  not  being  safe,  or  worth  the  danger,  for  Popish  eccle- 
siastics to  wear  their  proper  dress;  and  he  was,  in  consequence,  in 
no  wise  astonished  that  the  priest  should  now  appear  before  him  in 
a  riding-dress,  with  large  buff  leather  boots,  and  a  feather  to  his 
hat,  plain,  but  such  as  gentlemen  wore. 

"You  know  the  secret  of  the  cupboard,"  said  he,  laughing,  "and 
must  be  prepared  for  other  mysteries ;"  and  he  opened — but  not  a 
secret  cupboard  this  time — only  a  wardrobe,  which  he  usually  kept 
locked,  and  from  which  he  now  took  out  two  or  three  dresses  and 
perruques  of  different  colours,  and  a  couple  of  swords  of  a  pretty 
make  (Father  Holt  was  an  expert  practitioner  with  the  small-sword, 
and  every  day,  whilst  he  w^as  at  home,  he  and  his  pupil  practised 
this  exercise,  in  which  the  lad  became  a  very  great  proficient),  a 
military  coat  and  cloak,  and  a  farmer's  smock,  and  placed  them  in 
the  large  hole  over  the  mantelpiece  from  which  the  papers  had  been 
taken. 

"If  they  miss  the  cupboard,"  he  said,  "they  will  not  find  these; 
if  they  find  them,  thej-'ll  tell  no  tales,  except  that  Father  Holt 
wore  more  suits  of  clothes  than  one.  All  Jesuits  do.  You  know 
what  deceivers  we  are,  Harry." 

Harry  was  alarmed  at  the  notion  that  his  friend  was  about  to 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  77 

leave  him;  but  "No,*'  the  priest  said,  *'I  may  very  likely  come  back 
with  my  Lord  in  a  few  days.  We  are  to  be  tolerated ;  we  are  not 
to  be  persecuted.  But  they  may  take  a  fancy  to  pay  a  visit  at 
Castle  wood  ere  our  return;  and,  as  gentlemen  of  nw  cloth  are 
suspected,  they  might  choose  to  examine  my  papers,  which  concern 
nobody — at  least  not  them.*'  And  to  this  day,  whether  the  papers 
in  cipher  related  to  politics,  or  to  the  affairs  of  that  mysterious 
society  whereof  Father  Holt  was  a  member,  his  pupil,  Harry 
Esmond,  remains  in  entire  ignorance. 

The  rest  of  his  goods,  his  small  wardrobe,  &c.,  Holt  left 
untouched  on  his  shelves  and  in  his  cupboard,  taking  down — with 
a  laugh,  however — and  flinging  into  the  brazier,  where  he  only  half 
burned  them,  some  theological  treatises  which  he  had  been  writing 
against  the  English  divines.  "And  now,"  said  he,  "Henry,  my 
son,  you  ma}^  testify,  with  a  safe  conscience,  that  you  saw  me 
burning  Latin  sermons  the  last  time  I  was  here  before  I  went  away 
to  London;  and  it  will  be  daybreak  directly,  and  I  must  be  away 
before  Lockwood  is  stirring." 

"Will  not  Lockwood  let  you  out,  sirf  Esmond  asked.  Holt 
laughed ;  he  was  never  more  gay  or  good-humoured  than  when  in 
the  midst  of  action  or  danger. 

"Lockwood  knows  nothing  of  my  being  here,  mind  you,"  he 
said;  "nor  would  you,  you  little  wretch!  had  you  slept  better. 
You  must  forget  that  I  have  been  here ;  and  now  farewell.  Close 
the  door,  and  go  to  your  own  room,  and  don't  come  out  till — stay, 
why  should  you  not  know  one  secret  more?  I  know  you  will 
never  betray  me." 

In  the  Chaplain's  room  were  two  windows:  the  one  looking  into 
the  court  facing  westwards  to  the  fountain ;  the  other,  a  small  case- 
ment strongly  barred,  and  looking  on  to  the  green  in  front  of  the 
Hall.  This  window  was  too  high  to  reach  from  the  ground :  but, 
mounting  on  a  buffet  which  stood  beneath  it.  Father  Holt  showed 
me  how,  by  pressing  on  the  base  of  the  window,  the  whole  frame- 
work of  lead,  glass,  and  iron  stanchions  descended  into  a  cavity 
worked  below,  from  which  it  could  be  drawn  and  restored  to  its 


78  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND 

usual  place  from  without ;  a  broken  pane  being  purposely  open  to 
admit  the  hand  which  was  to  work  upon  the  spring  of  the 
machine. 

"When  I  am  gone,"  Father  Holt  said,  "you  may  push  away  the 
buffet,  so  that  no  one  may  fancy  that  an  exit  has  been  made  that 
way ;  lock  the  door ;  place  the  key — where  shall  we  put  the  key? — 
under  'Chrysostom'  on  the  bookshelf ;  and  if  any  ask  for  it,  say  I  keep 
it  there,  and  told  you  where  to  find  it,  if  you  had  need  to  go  to  my 
room.  The  descent  is  easy  down  the  wall  into  the  ditch ;  and  so 
once  more  farewell,  until  I  see  thee  again,  my  dear  son."  And 
with  this  the  intrepid  Father  mounted  the  buffet  with  great  agility 
and  briskness,  stepped  across  the  window,  lifting  up  the  bars  and 
framework  again  from  the  other  side,  and  only  leaving  room  for 
Harry  Esmond  to  stand  on  tiptoe  and  kiss  his  hand  before  the  case- 
ment closed,  the  bars  fixing  as  firm  as  ever,  seemingly,  in  the  stone 
arch  overhead.  When  Father  Holt  next  arrived  at  Castle  wood,  it  was 
by  the  public  gate  on  horseback ;  and  he  'never  so  much  as  alluded 
to  the  existence  of  the  private  issue  to  Harry,  except  when  he  had 
need  of  a  private  messenger  from  within,  for  which  end,  no  doubt, 
he  had  instructed  his  young  pupil  in  the  means  of  quitting  the 
Hall. 

Esmond,  young  as  he  was,  would  have  died  sooner  than  betray 
his  friend  and  master,  as  Mr.  Holt  well  knew ;  for  he  had  tried  the 
boy  more  than  once,  putting  temptations  in  his  way,  to  see  whether 
he  would  yield  to  them  and  confess  afterwards,  or  whether  he 
would  resist  them,  as  he  did  sometimes,  or  whether  he  would  lie, 
which  he  never  did.  Holt  instructing  the  boy  on  this  point,  how- 
ever, that  if  to  keep  silence  is  not  to  lie,  as  it  certainly  is  not,  yet 
silence  is,  after  all,  equivalent  to  a  negation — and  therefore  a  down- 
right No,  in  the  interest  of  justice  or  your  friend,  and  in  reply  to  a 
question  that  may  be  prejudicial  to  either,  is  not  criminal,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  praiseworthy.;  and  as  lawful  a  way  as  the  other  of 
eluding  a  wrongful  demand.  For  instance  (says  he),  suppose  a 
good  citizen,  who  had  seen  his  Majesty  take  refuge  there,  had  been 
asked,  "Is  King  Cliarles  up  that  oak  tree?"  his  duty  would  have, 


TEIE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  79 

been  not  to  say,  Yes — so  that  the  Cromwellians  should  seize  the 
king  and  murder  him  like  his  father — but  No;  his  Majesty  being 
private  in  the  tree,  and  therefore  not  to  be  seen  there  by  loyal  eyes : 
all  which  instruction,  in  religion  and  morals,  as  well  as  in  the  rudi- 
ments of  the  tongues  and  sciences,  the  boy  took  eagerly  and  with 
gratitude  from  his  tutor.  When,  then.  Holt  was  gone,  and  told 
Harry  not  to  see  him,  it  was  as  if  he  had  never  been.  And  he  had 
this  answer  pat  when  he  came  to  be  questioned  a  few  days  after. 

The  Prince  of  Orange  was  then  at  Salisbury,  as  young  Esmond 
learned  from  seeing  Doctor  Tusher  in  his  best  cassock  (though  the 
roads  were  muddy,  and  he  never  was  known  to  wear  his  silk,  only 
liis  stuff  one,  a-horseback),  with  a  great  orange  cockade  in  his 
broad-leafed  hat,  and  Nahum,  his  clerk,  ornamented  with  a  like 
decoration.  The  Doctor  w^as  w^alking  up  and  down  in  front  of  his 
parsonage,  when  little  Esmond  saw  him,  and  heard  him  say  he  was 
going  to  pay  his  duty  to  his  Highness  the  Prince,  as  he  mounted  his 
pad  and  rode  aw^ay  with  Nahum  behind.  The  village  people  had 
orange  cockades  too,  and  his  friend  the  blacksmith's  laughing 
daughter  pinned  one  into  Harry's  old  hat,  which  he  tore  out  indig- 
nantly when  they  bade  him  to  cry  "God  save  the  Prince  of  Orange 
and  the  Protestant  religion  1"  but  the  people  onl}-  lauglied,  for  they 
liked  the  boy  in  the  village,  wliere  his  solitary  condition  moved  the 
general  pity,  and  where  he  found  friendly  welcomes  and  faces  in 
many  houses.  Father  Holt  had  many  friends  there  too,  for  he  not 
only  would  fight  the  blacksmith  at  theology,  never  losing  his  tem- 
per, but  laughing  the  whole  time  in  his  pleasant  way;  but  he  cured 
him  of  an  ague  with  quinquina,  and  was  always  ready  with  a  kind 
word  for  any  man  that  asked  it,  so  that  they  said  in  the  village 
'twas  a  pity  the  two  were  Papists. 

The  Director  and  the  Vicar  of  Castlewood  agreed  very  well; 
indeed,  the  former  was  a  perfectly-bred  gentleman,  and  it  was  the 
latter's  business  to  agree  with  everybody.  Doctor  Tusher  and  the 
lady's  maid,  his  spouse,  had  a  boy  who  was  about  the  age  of  little 
Esmond;  and  there  was  such  a  friendship  between  the  lads,  as 
propinquity  and  tolerable  kindness  and  good-humour  on  either  side 


80  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

would  be  pretty  sure  to  occasion.  Tom  Tuslier  was  sent  off  early, 
however,  to  a  school  in  London,  whither  his  father  took  him  and  a 
volume  of  sermons,  in  the  first  year  of  the  reign  of  King  James ; 
and  Tom  returned  but  once  a  year  afterwards  to  Castlewood  for 
many  years  of  his  scholastic  and  collegiate  life.  Thus  there  was 
less  danger  to  Tom  of  a  perversion  of  his  faith  by  the  Director,  who 
scarce  ever  saw  him,  than  there  was  to  Harry,  who  constantly  was 
in  the  Vicar's  company;  but  as  long  as  Harry's  religion  was  his 
Majesty's,  and  my  Lord's,  and  my  Lady's,  the  Doctor  said  gravely, 
it  should  not  be  for  him  to  disturb  or  disquiet  him :  it  was  far  from 
him  to  say  tliat  his  Majesty's  Church  was  not  a  branch  of  the  Cath- 
olic Church;  upon  which  Farther  Holt  used,  according  to  his  cus- 
tom, to  laugh,  and  say  that  the  Holy  Church  throughout  all  the 
world,  and  the  noble  Army  of  Martyrs,  were  very  much  obliged  to 
the  Doctor. 

it  was  while  Doctor  Tusher  was  away  at  Salisbury  that  there 
-came  a  troop  of  dragoons  with  orange  scarfs,  and  quartered  in 
Castlewood,  and  some  of  them  came  up  to  the  Hall,  where  they  took 
possession,  robbing  nothing  however  beyond  the  hen-house  and  the 
•beer-cellar ;  and  only  insisting  upon  going  through  the  house  and 
looking  for  papers.  The  first  room  they  asked  to  look  at  was  Father 
Holt's  room,  of  which  Harry  Esmond  brought  the  key,  and  they 
opened  the  drawers  and  the  cupboards,  and  tossed  over  the  papers 
and  clothes — but  found  nothing  except  his  books  and  clothes,  and 
the  vestments  in  a  box  by  themselves,  with  which  the  dragoons 
made  merry,  to  Harry  Esmond's  horror.  And  to  the  questions 
which  the  gentleman  put  to  Hany,  he  replied  that  Father  Holt  was 
a  very  kind  man  to  him,  and  a  very  learned  man,  and  Harry 
supposed  would  tell  him  none  of  his  secrets,  if  he  had  any.  He  was 
about  eleven  years  old  at  this  time,  and  looked  as  innocent  as  boys 
of  his  age. 

The  family  were  away  more  than  six  months,  and  when  they 
returned  they  were  in  the  deepest  state  of  dejection,  for  King 
James  had  been  banished,  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  on  the  throne, 
and  the  direst  persecutions  of  those  oi    the  Catholic  faith  were 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  81 

apprehended  by  my  Lady,  who  said  she  did  not  believe  that  there 
was  a  word  of  truth  in  the  promises  of  toleration  that  Dutch  mon- 
ster made,  or  in  a  single  word  the  perjured  wretch  said.  My  Lord 
and  Lady  were  in  a  manner  prisoners  in  their  own  house ;  so  her 
Ladyship  gave  the  little  page  to  know,  who  was  by  this  time  grow- 
ing of  an  age  to  understand  what  was  passing  about  him,  and  some- 
thing of  the  characters  of  the  people  he  lived  with. 

"We  are  prisoners,"  says  she;  "in  everything  but  chains  we  are 
prisoners.  Let  them  come,  let  them  consign  me  to  dungeons,  or 
strike  ofif  my  head  from  this  poor  little  throat"  (and  she  clasped  it 
in  her  long  fingers).  "The  blood  of  the  Esmonds  will  always  flow 
freely  for  their  kings.  We  are  not  like  the  Churchills— the  Judases, 
who  kiss  their  master  and  betray  him.  We  know  how  to  suffer, 
how  even  to  forgive  in  the  royal  cause"  (no  doubt  it  was  that  fatal 
business  of  losing  the  place  of  Groom  of  the  Posset  to  which  her 
Ladyship  alluded,  as  she  did  half-a-dozen  times  in  the  day).  "Let 
the  tyrant  of  Orange  bring  his  rack  and  his  odious  Dutch  tortures — 
the  beast !  the  wretch !  I  spit  upon  him  and  defy  him.  Cheerfully 
will  I  lay  this  head  upon  the  block ;  cheerfully  will  I  accompany 
my  Lord  to  the  scaffold:  we  will  cry  'God  save  King  James!'  with 
our  dyihg  breath,  and  smile  in  the  face  of  the  executioner."  And 
she  told  "her  page,  a  hundred  times  at  least,  of  the  particulars  of 
the  last  interview  which  she  had  with  his  Majesty. 

"I  flung  myself  before  my  liege's  feet,"  she  said,  "at  Salisbury. 
I  devoted  myself — my  husband — my  house,  to  his  cause.  Perhaps 
he  remembered  old  times,  when  Isabella  Esmond  was  young  and 
fair;  perhaps  he  recalled  the  day  when  'twas  not  / that  knelt — at 
least  he  spoke  to  me  with  a  voice  that  reminded  me  of  days  gone 
by.  'Egad!'  said  his  Majesty,  'you  should  go  to  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  if  you  want  anything.'  'No,  sire,'  I  rephed,  'I  would  not 
kneel  to  a  Usurper ;  the  Esmond  that  would  have  served  your  Majesty 
will  never  be  groom  to  a  traitor's  posset. '  The  royal  exile  smiled, 
even  in  the  midst  of  his  misfortune ;  he  deigned  to  raise  me  with 
words  of  consolation.  The  Viscount,  my  husband,  himself,  could 
not  be  angry  at  the  august  salute  with  which  he  honoured  me!" 


82  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

The  public  misfortune  had  the  effect  of  making  my  Lord  and 
his  Lady  better  friends  than  they  ever  had  been  since  their  court^ 
ship.  My  Lord  Viscount  had  shown  both  loyalty  and  spirit,  when 
these  were  rare  qualities  in  the  dispirited  party  about  the  King ; 
and  the  praise  die  got  elevated  him  not  a  little  in  his  wife's  good 
opinion,  and  perhaps  in  his  own.  He  wakened  up  from  the  listless 
and  supine  life  which  he  had  been  leading;  was  always  riding  to 
and  fro  in  consultation  with  this  friend  or  that  of  the  King's;  the 
page  of  course  knowing  little  of  his  doings,  but  remarking  only  his 
greater  cheerfulness  and  altered  demeanour. 

Father  Holt  came  to  the  Hall,  constantly,  but  officiated  no  longer 
openly  as  chaplain',  he  was  always  fetching  and  carrying:  strangers, 
military  and  eccl^iastic  (Harry  knew  tl\e  latter,  though  they  came 
in  all  sorts  of  disguise "X  were  continually  arriving  and  departing. 
My  Lord  made  long  absences  and  sudden  reapp^rances,  using  some- 
times the  means  of  exit  which  Father  Holt  had  employed,  though 
how  often  the  little  window  in  tha  Chaplain's  room  let  in  or  let  out 
my  Lord  and  his  friends,  Harry  could  ^ot  tell.  He  stoutly  kept  his 
promise  to  the  Father  of  not  prying,  andif  at  midnight  from  his 
little  room  he  heard  noises  of  persons  stirringsjn  the  next  chaml^e^ 
he  turned  round  to  the  wall,  and  hid  his  curiosity,  under  hiijHpillow* 
uiiUi  it  fell  asleep.  Of  course  he  could  not  help  rem^rkiE^^  that  tJie 
l^riest's  journeys  were  constant,  and  understanding  by  a  hundred 
signs  that  some  active  though  secret  business  employed  him :  what 
this  was  may  pretty  well  be  guessed  by  what  soon  happened  to  my 
Lord. 

No  garrison  or  watch  was  put  into  Castle  wood  when  my  Lord 
came  back,  but  a  guard  was  in  the  village;  and  one  or  other^of  them 
was  always  on  the  Green  keeping  a  look-out  on  our  great  g9,te,  and 
.those  who  went  out  and  in.  Lockwood  said  that  at  night  especialh^ 
everj^  person  who  came  in  or  went  out  was  watched  bj^  the  outlying 
sentries.  'Twas  lucky  that  we  had  a  gate  which  their  WcM'ships 
knew  nothing  about.  My  Lord  and  Father  Holt  must  have  'made 
constant  journeys  at  night:  once  or  twice  little  Harry  acted  as  their 
messenger  and  discreet  aide-de-camp.     He  remembers  he  was.^id- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND  8S 

den  to  go  into  the  village  with  liis  fishing-rod,  enter  certain 
houses,  ask  for  a  drink  of  water,  and  tell  the  good  man,  "'There 
would  be  a  horse-market  at  Newbury  next  Thursday,"  and  so  carry 
the  same  message  on  to  the  next  house  on  his  list. 

He  did  not  know  what  the  message  meant  at  the  time,  nor  what 
was  happening:  which  may  as  well,  however,  for  clearness'  sake, 
be  explained  here.  The  Prince  of  Orange  being  gone  to  Ireland, 
where  the  King  was  ready  to  meet  him  with  a  great  army,  it  was 
determined  that  a  great  rising  of  his  Majesty's  party  should  take 
place  in  this  country;  and  my  Lord  was  to  head  the  force  in  our 
county.  Of  late  he  had  taken  a  gre^Uie*"  lead  in  affairs  than  before, 
having  the  indefatigable  Mr.  Bo^fftlit  j^^fejiiu^JJbow,  and  my  Lady 
Viscountess  strongly  urging  .likm.QtliSdaaltimy  hotd  Sark  being  in  the 
Tower  a  prisoner,  and  .^^^"iJ|ft©fl6&^fcttic^?9rllfiQueen's  Crawley, 
having  gone  over  to«llfbl*JOSfiJ^&tf^^fl^^>^=^le— my  Lord  became 
the  most  conside'^SIfe^^ViftKi^^ii^l^ia*  of  the  country  for  the 
affairs  of  the  ISlii^^  ml  mlA^h^'i^ 

It  ^^•as  ^iJta^i^tti^ilSl^f^Wgfet  of  Scots  Greys  and  Dragoons, 
then  qi^lj8^M^5fi'«W^fe(tft^?^&©'uld  declare  for  the  King  on  a  cer- 
tain«\M^,%;4f^ff'fiHE^^4Mafi^entry  affected  to  his  Majesty's  caus^ 
vs^r*IIto|i©<S4fee^i^«i3^th  tenants  and  adherents  to  Newbury, 
t^lBll^?tl^li^|6^$;qa«51l  troops  at  Reading  under  Ginckel;  and,  thesu 
Ci'^iflfl^-*^f^'J^*S' their  indomitable  little  master  away  in  Ireland, 
'twasTtiK>p(ght  that  our  side  might  move  on  London  itself,  and  a 
feH|!^fe4^S^tory  was  predicted  for  the  King. 

8^1 '.Afe^'e^'^ great  matters  were  in  agitation,  my  Lord  lost  his  list- 
"W^^^Wg^i-  and  seemed  to  gain  health ;  my  Lady  did  not  scokt 
Viiwii^-MiVpHolt  came  to  and  fro,  busy  always;  and  little  Harry 
4l^fi!g^t1*^'^have  been  a  few  inches  taller,  that  he  might  draw  a  sword 
ft^tft!?>'%bod  cause. 

^^^v'^^ffil^'Bay,  it  must  have  been  about  the  month  of  June  1690,  my 
iiMtf^'ffe  a  great  horseman's  coat,  under  which  Harry  could  see  the 
sbffhta^  of  a  steel  breastplate  he  had  on,  called  little  Harry  to  him, 
'^AiT^tfte  hair  off  the  child's  forehead,  and  kissed  him,  and  bade  God 
Wtetts  liitn  in  such  an  affectionate  way  as  he  never  had  used  before. 


84  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Father  Holt  blessed  him  too,  and  then  they  took  leave  of  my  Lady 
Viscountess,  who  came  from  her  apartment  with  a  pocket-handker- 
chief to  her  eyes,  and  her  gentlewoman  and  Mrs.  Tuslier  supporting 
her.  "You  are  going  to — to  ride,"'  says  she.  "Oh,  that  I  might 
come  too! — but  in  my  situation  I  am  forbidden  horse  exercise."' 

"We  kiss  my  Lady  Marchioness's  hand,"'  says  Mr.  Holt. 

"My  Lord,  God  speed  you!"  she  said,  stepping  up  and  embracing; 
my  Lord  in  a  grand  manner.  "Mr.  Holt,  I  ask  your  blessing:"  and 
she  knelt  down  for  that,  whilst  Mrs.  Tusher  tossed  her  head  up. 

Mr.  Holt  gave  the  same  benediction  to  the  little  page,  wlio  went 
down  and  held  my  Lord's  stw^iips  for  him  to  mount ;  there  were 
two  servants  waiting  tli4i*ii(N>^^dyid  they  rode  out  of  Castlewood 
gate.  .-  ii'i^xi  v^n^MfiT^yw^t'ftHi^ 

As  they  crosseft 'Afe^ihfWgi^ifeiffjf^ffifei^  see  an  officer  in  scarlet 
ride  up  touching  his''bftfe,'agaffe«adli(#^'3iBi^l'J.ta4- 

The  party  stopped,  ataiidfa(flatowiftt^i,i)8iqr§^,^Hg^y  or  discussion, 
which  presently  ended,  my  Ik)dfliii>ii>tti]ig  ihisubj^H^into  a  canter 
after  taking  off  his  hat  and  niato^i[lpM!li|ftilt^iqg[^(»3lf^  who  rode 
alongside  him  step  for  step:  the  trQil^^tti©$iij$i^>i^llgqgigpJ|^^^ 
back,  and  riding  with  my  Lord's  two  iTJitfb  ^;3"^»^fiaj}^i^!F0tl;^j$jftr  the 
green,  and  behind  the  elms  (my  Lord  tfOsilieaijifei^Hl^Mjd^jH^i^ 
thought),  and  so  they  disappeared.  That  e vG^jj^^,  gff}%,  ^^t^  fg|:)g^ 
panic,  the  cowboy  coming  at  milking-time  riding  CHM!a^«i^V<iiJ[f ¥§l^  . 
which  he  had  found  grazing  at  the  outer  park- wall,   tj^jjaciiiii^rfj^^  % 

All  night  my  Lady  Viscountess  was  in  a  very  quie^t^^^i^i^t^^^ 
mood.  She  scarce  found  fault  with  anybody;  she  plaj^ji^^Mt-ds 
for  six  hours ;  little  page  Esmond  went  to  sleep.  He^jw^^i^  J.'^f 
my  Lord  and  the  good  cause  before  closing  his  eyes.  ^^  i^n. 

It  was  quite  in  the  grey  of  the  morning  when  the  po:i^^',§j^p^ 
rang,  and  old  Lockwood,  waking  vp,  let  in  one  of  my  Loi|^"^^r,Y^ 
ants,  who  had  gone  with  him  in  the  morning,  and  who  y^^^^ev\ 
with  a  melancholy  story.  The  officer  who  rode  up  to  my  Lqf  dj-t^^, 
it  appeared,  said  to  him,  that  it  was  his  duty  to  inform  hi^j|^/^- 
ship  that  he  was  not  under  arrest,  but  under  surveillance,  H^^jilp 
request  him  not  to  ride  abroad  that  day.  '^mhi 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  85 

My  Lord  replied  that  riding  was  good  for  his  health,  that  if  the 
Captaiu  chose  to  accompany  him  he  was  welcome ;  and  it  was  then 
that  he  made  a  bow,  and  they  cantered  away  together. 

When  he  came  on  to  Wansey  Down,  my  Lord  all  of  a  sudden 
pulled  up,  and  the  party  came  to  a  halt  at  the  crossway. 

"Sir."  says  he  to  tlie  officer,  "we  are  four  to  two:  will  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  take  that  road,  and  leave  me  to  go  mine?"' 

"Your  road  is  mine,  my  Lord,"  says  the  officer. 

"Then — "  says  my  Lord;  but  he  had  no  time  to  say  more,  for 
the  officer,  drawing  a  pistol,  snapped  it  at  his  Lordship;  as  at 
the  same  moment  Father  Holt,  drawing  a  pistol,  shot  the  officer 
through  the  head.  It  was  done,  and  the  man  dead  in  an  instant  of 
time.  The  orderly,  gazing  at  the  officer,  looked  scared  for  a 
moment,  and  galloped  away  for  his  life. 

"Fire!  fire!"  cries  out  Father  Holt,  sending  another  shot  after 
the  trooper,  but  the  two  servants  were  too  much  surprised  to  use 
their  pieces,  and  my  Lord  calling, to  them  to  hold  their  hands,  the 
fellow  got  away.  ^ 

"Mr.  Holt,  .qui  penmUt' a  tout,'''  says  Blaise,  "gets  off  his  horse, 
examines  the  pockets  of  the  dead  officer  for  papers,  gives  his  money 
to  us  two,  and  says,  'The  wine  is  drawn,  M.  le  Marquis,'— why  did 
he  say  Marquis  to  M.  le  Vicomte? — 'we  must  drink  it.' 

"The  poor  gentleman's  horse  was  a  better  one  than  that  I  rode," 
Blaise  continues:  "Mr.  Holt  bids  me  get  on  him,  and  sol  gave  a 
cut  to  Whitefoot,  and  she  trotted  home.  We  rode  on  towards  New- 
bury; we  heard  firing  towards  mid-day :  at  two  o'clock  a  horseman 
comes  up  to  us  as  we  were  giving  our  cattle  water  at  an  inn — and 
says,  'All  is  done!  The  Ecossais  declared  an  hour  too  soon — Gen- 
eral Ginckel  was  down  upon  them.'  The  whole  thing  was  at  an 
end. 

"  'And  we've  shot  an  officer  on  duty,  and  let  his  orderly  escape,' 
says  my  Lord. 

"  'Blaise,'  says  Mr.  Holt,  writing  two  lines  on  his  table-book, 
one  for  my  Lady,  and  one  for  you,  Master  Harry;  'you  must  go 
back  to  Castlewood,  and  deliver  these,'  and  behold  me.'' 


86  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

And  he  gave  Harry  the  two  papers.  He  read  that  to  himself, 
which  only  said,  "Burn  the  papers  in  the  cupboard,  burn  this.  You 
know  nothing  about  anything."  Harry  read  this,  ran  upstairs  to 
his  mistress's  apartment,  where  her  gentlewoman  slept  near  to  the 
door,  made  her  bring  a  light  and  wake  my  Lady,  into  whose  hands 
he  gave  the  paper.  She  was  a  wonderful  object  to  look  at  in  her 
night  attire,  nor  had  Harry  ever  seen  the  like. 

As  soon  as  she  had  the  paper  in  her  hand,  Harry  stepped  back  to 
the  Chaplain's  room,  opened  the  secret  cupboard  over  the  fireplace, 
burned  all  the  papers  in  it,  and,  as  he  had  seen  the  priest  do  before, 
took  down  one  of  his  reverence's  manuscript  sermons,  and  half  burnt 
that  in  the  brazier.  By  the  time  the  papers  were  quite  destroyed  it 
was  daylight.  Harry  ran  back  to  his  mistress  again.  Her  gentle- 
woman ushered  him  again  into  her  Ladyship's  chamber ;  she  told 
him  (from  behind  her  nuptial  curtains)  to  bid  the  coach  be  got 
ready,  and  that  she  would  ride  away  anon. 

But  the  mysteries  of  her  Ladyship's  toilet  were  as  awfully  long 
on  this  day  as  on  any  other,  and,  lorig  after  the  coach  was  ready, 
my  Lady  was  still  attiring  herself.  And  "Jtts^  as  the  Viscountess 
stepped  forth  from  her  room,  ready  for  departure,  young  John  Lock- 
wood  comes  running  up  from  the  village  with  news  that  a  lawyer, 
three  officers,  and  twenty  or  four-and-twenty  soldiers,  were  march- 
ing thence  upon  the  house.  John  had  but  two  minutes  the  start  of 
them,  and,  ere  he  had  well  told  his  story,  the  troop  rode  into  our 
courtyard. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ISSUE   OF  THE  PLOTS — THE   DEATH   OF   THOMAS,  THIRD  VISCOUNT 
OF   CASTLEWOOD;    AND  THE   IMPRISONMENT   OF   HIS   VISCOUNTESS 

At  first  my  Lady  was  for  dying  like  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots  (to 
wliom  she  fancied  she  bore  a  resemblance  in  beauty),  and,  stroking 
her__scraggy^-He€k,  said,  "They  will  find  Isabel  of  Castlewood  is 
ec^ual  to  her  fate. "  Her  gentlewoman,  Victoire,  persuaded  her  that 
her  prudent  course  was,  as  she  could  not  fly,  to  receive  the  troops 
as  though  she  suspected  nothing,  and  that  her  chamber  was  the 
best  place  wherein  to  await  them.  So  her  black  Japan  casket, 
which  Harry  was  to  carry  to  the  coach,  was  taken  back  to  her 
Ladyship's  chamber,  whither  the  maid  and  mistress  retired.  Vic- 
toire came  out  presently,  bidding  the  page  to  say  her  Ladyship  was 
ill,  confined  to  her  bed  with  the  rheumatism. 

By  this  time  the  soldiers  had  reached  Castlewood.  Harry 
Esmond  saw  them  from  the  window  of  the  tapestry  parlour;  a 
couple  of  sentinels  were  posted  at  the  gate — a  half-dozen  more 
walked  towards  the  stable;  and  some  others,  preceded  by  their 
commander,  and  a  man  in  black,  a  lawyer  probably,  were  con- 
ducted by  one  of  the  servants  to  the  stair  leading  up  to  the  part  of 
the  house  which  my  Lord  and  Lady  inhabited. 

So  the  Captain,  a  handsome  kind  man,  and  the  lawyer,  came 
through  the  ante-room  to  the  tapestry  parlour,  and  where  now  was 
nobody  but  young  Harry  Esmond,  the  page. 

"Tell  your  mistress,  little  man,"  says  the  Captain  kindly,  "that 
we  must  speak  to  her. ' ' 

"My  mistress  is  ill  a- bed,"  said  the  page. 

"What  complaint  has  she?"  asked  the  Captain. 

The  boy  said,  "The  rheumatism." 

87 


88  THE  HISTORY  O^  HENRY  ESMOND 

"Rheumatism!  that's  a  sad  complaint,"  continues  the  good- 
natured  Captain;  "and  the  coach  is  in  the  yard  to  fetch  the  Doctor, 
I  suppose?" 

"I  don't  know,"  says  the  boy. 

"And  how  long  has  her  LadN^ship  been  ill?" 

"I  don't  know,"  says  the  boy. 

"When  did  my  Lord  go  away?" 

' '  Yesterday  night. ' ' 

"With  Father  Holt?" 

"With  Mr.  Holt." 

"And  which  way  did  they  travel?"  asks  the  lawyer. 

"They  travelled  without  me,"  says  the  page. 

"We  must  see  Lady  Castlewood." 

"I  have  orders  that  nobody  goes  in  to  her  Ladyship— she  is  sick," 
says  the  page;  but  at  this  moment  Victoire  came  out.  "Hush!" 
says  she;  and,  as  if  not  knowing  that  anyone  was  near,  "What's 
this  noise?"  says  she.     "Is  this  gentleman  the  Doctor?" 

"Stuff!  we  must  see  Lady  Castlewood,"  says  the  lawyer,  push- 
ing by. 

The  curtains  of  her  Ladyship's  room  were  down,  and  the  cham- 
ber dark,  and  she  was  in  bed  with  a  nightcap  on  her  head,  and 
propped  up  by  her  pillows,  looking  none  the  less  ghastly  because  of 
the  red  which  was  still  on  her  cheeks,  and  which  she  could  not 
afford  to  forego. 

"Is  that  the  Doctor?"  she  said. 

"There  is  no  use  with  this  deception,  madam,"  Captain  West- 
bury  said  (for  so  he  was  named).  "My  duty  is  to  arrest  the  person 
of  Thomas,  Viscount  Castlewood,  a  nonjuring  peer — of  Robert 
Tusher,  Vicar  of  Castlewood — and  Henry  Holt,  known  under 
A'arious  others  names  and  designations,  a  Jesuit  priest,  who  offici- 
ated as  chaplain  here  in  the  late  king's  time,  and  is  now  at  the  head 
of  the  conspiracy  which  was  about  to  break  out  in  this  country 
against  the  authority  of  their  Majesties  King  William  and  Queen 
Mary — and  my  orders  are  to  search  the  house  for  such  papers  or 
traces  of  the  conspiracy  as  may  be  found  here.     Your  Ladyship 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  89 

will  please  to  give  me  your  keys,  and  it  will  be  as  well  for  yourself 
that  you  should  help  us,  in  every  way,  in  our  search." 

"You  see,  sir,  that  I  have  the  rheumatism,  and  cannot  move," 
said  the  lady,  looking  uncommonly  ghastly,  as  she  sat  up  in  her 
bed,  where,  however,  she  had  had  her  cheeks  painted,  and  a  new 
cap  put  on,  so  that  she  might  at  least  look  her  best  when  the  offi- 
cers came. 

"I  shall  take  leave  to  place  a  sentinel  in  the  chamber,  so  that 
3'our  Ladyship,  in  case  you  should  wish  to  rise,  may  have  an  arm 
to  lean  on,"  Captain  Westbury  said.  "Your  woman  will  show  me 
where  I  am  to  look;"  and  Madame  Victoire,  chattering  in  her  half 
French  and  half  English  jargon,  opened  while  the  Captain  examined 
one  drawer  after  another;  but,  as  Harry  Esmond  thought,  rather 
carelessly,  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  as  if  he  was  only  conducting 
the  examination  for  form's  sake. 

Before  one  of  the  cupboards  Victoire  flung  herself  down,  stretch- 
ing out  her  arms,  and,  with  a  piercing  shriek,  cried,  "Non,  jamais,, 
monsieur  I'officier!  Jamais!  I  will  rather  die  than  let  you  see  this 
wardrobe." 

But  Captain  Westbury  would  open  it,  still  with  a  smile  on  his 
face,  which,  when  the  box  was  opened,  turned  into  a  fair  burst  of 
laughter.  It  contained — not  papers  regarding  the  conspiracy — but 
my  Lady's  wigs,  washes,  and  rouge-pots,  and  Victoire  said  men 
were  monsters,  as  the  Captain  went  on  with  his  perquisition.  He 
j  tapped  the  back  to  see  whether  or  no  it  was  hollow,  and  as  he  thrust 
1  his  hands  into  the  cupboard,  my  Lady  from  her  bed  called  out,  with 
a  voice  that  did  not  sound  like  that  of  a  very  sick  woman,  "Is  it 
your  commission  to  insult  ladres  as  well  as  to  arrest  gentlemen, 
I  Captain?" 

"These  articles  are  only  dangerous  when  worn  by  your  Lady- 
ship," the  Captain  said,  with  a  low  bow^  and  a  mock  grin  of  polite- 
ness. "I  have  found  nothing  which  concerns  the  Government  as 
yet — only  the  weapons  with  which  beauty  is  authorised  to  kill," 
says  he,  pointing  to  a  wig  witli  his  sword-tip.  "We  must  now  pro- 
ceed to  search  the  rest  of  the  house." 


90  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

"You  are  not  going  to  leave  that  wretch  in  the  room  with  me?" 
cried  my  Lady,  pointing  to  the  soldier. 

"What  can  I  do,  madam?  Somebody  you  must  have  to  smooth 
your  pillow  and  bring  your  medicine — permit  me " 

"Sir!"  screamed  out  ni}^  Lady. 

"Madam,  if  you  are  too  ill  to  leave  the  bed,"  the  Captain  then 
said,  rather  sternly,  "I  must  have  in  four  of  my  men  to  lift  you  off 
in  the  sheet.  I  must  examine  this  bed,  in  a  word ;  papers  may  be 
hidden  in  a  bed  as  elsewhere;  we  know  that  very  well,  and " 

Here  it  was  her  Ladyship's  turn  to  shriek,  for  the  Captain,  with 
his  fist  shaking  the  pillows  and  bolsters,  at  last  came  to  "burn"  as 
they  say  in  the  play  of  forfeits,  and  wrenching  away  one  of  the  pil- 
lows, said,  "Look!  did  I  not  tell  you  so?  Here  is  a  pillow  stuffed 
with  paper." 

"Some  villain  has  betrayed  us,"  cried  out  my  Lady,  sitting  up  in 
the  bed,  showing  herself  full  dressed  under  her  night-rail. 

"And  now  your  Ladyship  can  move,  lam  sure;  permit  me  to 
give  you  my  hand  to  rise.  You  will  have  to  travel  for  some  dis- 
tance, as  far  as  Hexton  Castle,  to-night.  Will  you  have  your  coach? 
Your  woman  shall  attend  you  if  you  like — and  the  Japan  box?" 

"Sir!  you  don't  strike  a  man  when  he  is  down,"  said  my  Lady, 
with  some  dignity:  "can  you  not  spare  a  woman?" 

"Your  Ladyship  must  please  to  rise,  and  let  me  search  the  bed," 
said  the  Captain;  "there  is  no  more  time  to  lose  in  bandying  talk." 

And,  without  more  ado,  the  gaunt  old  woman  got  up.  Harry 
Esmond  recollected  to  the  end  of  his  life  that  figure  with  the  brocade 
dress  and  the  white  night-rail,  and  cthe  gold-clocked  red  stockings, 
and  white  red-heeled  shoes,  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  and  stepping 
down  from  it.  The  trunks  were  ready  packed  for  departure  in  her 
ante-room,  and  the  horses  ready  harnessed  in  the  stable :  about  all 
which  the  Captain  seemed  to  know,  by  information  got  from  some 
quarter  or  other;  and  whence  Esmond  could  make  a  pretty  shrewd 
guess  in  aftertimes,  when  Doctor  Tusher  complained  that  King 
William's  government  had  basely  treated  him  for  services  done  in 
that  cause. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  91 

And  here  he  may  relate,  though  he  was  then  too  young  to  know 
all  that  was  happening,  what  the  papers  contained,  of  which  Cap- 
tain Westbury  had  made  a  seizure,  and  which  papers  had  been 
transferred  from  the  Japan  box  to  the  bed  when  the  officers  arrived. 

There  was  a  list  of  gentlemen  of  the  county  in  Father  Holt's 
handwriting — Mr.  Freeman's  (King  James's)  friends — a  similar 
paper  being  found  among  those  of  Sir  John  Fenwick  and  Mr. 
Coplestone,  who  suffered  death  for  this  conspiracy. 

There  was  a  patent  conferring  the  title  of  Marquis  of  Esmond 
on  my  Lord  Castlewood  and  the  heirs-male  of  his  body ;  his  appoint- 
ment as  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  County,  and  Major-General.^ 

There  were  various  letters  from  the  nobility  and  gentry,' some 

ardent  and  some  doubtful,  in  the  King's  service;  and  (very  luckily 

for  him)  two  letters  concerning  Colonel  Francis  Esmond:  one  from 

Father  Holt,  which  said,  "I  have  been  to  see  this  Colonel  at  his. 

house  at  Walcote,  near  to  Wells,  where  he  resides  since  the  King's 

departure,  and  pressed  him  very  eagerly  in  Mr.  Freeman's  cause, 

showing  him  the  great  advantage  he  would  have  by  trading  with 

that  merchant,    offering    him  large    premiums    there    as    agreed 

between  us.    But  he  says  no:  he  considers  Mr.  Freeman  the  head  of 

the  firm,  will  never  trade  against  him  or  embark  with  any  other 

trading  company,  but  considers  his  duty  was  done  when  Mr.  Free- 

\  man  left  England.     This  Colonel  seems  to  care  more  for  his  wife 

and  his  beagles  than  for  affairs.     He  asked  me  much  about  young 

;  H.  E  ,  'that  bastard,'  as  he  called  him;  doubting  my  Lord's  inten- 

I  tions  respecting  him.     I  reassured  him  on  this  head,  stating  what  I 

(  knew  of  the  lad,  and  our  intentions  respecting  him,  but  with  regard 

to  Freeman  he  was  inflexible." 

And  another  letter  was  from  Colonel  Esmond  to  his  kinsman,  to 

1  To  have  this  rank  of  Marquis  restoi'ed  in  the  family  had  always  been  my 
Lady  Viscountess's  ambition;  and  her  old  maiden  aunt,  Barbara  Topham,  the 
goldsmith's  daughter,  dying  about  this  time,  and  leaving  all  her  propei'ty  to 
Lady  Castlewood,  I  have  heard  that  her  Ladyship  sent  almost  the  whole  of  the 
money  to  King  James,  a  proceeding  which  so  irritated  my  Lord  Castlewood  that 
he  actually  went  to  the  parish  church,  and  was  only  appeased  by  the  Marquis's 
title  which  his  exiled  Majesty  sent  to  him  in  retui-n  for  the  £15,000  his  faithful 
subject  lent  him. 


92  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

say  that  one  Captain  Holton  had  been  with  him  offering  him  large 
bribes  to  join,  you  kyioiv  ivho,  and  saying  that  the  head  of  the  house 
of  Castlewood  was  deeply  engaged  in  that  quarter.  But  for  his 
part  he  had  broke  his  sword  when  the  K.  left  the  country,  and 
would  never  again  fight  in  that  quarrel.  The  P.  of  O.  was  a  man, 
at  least,  of  a  noble  courage,  and  his  duty,  and,  as  he  thought,  every 
Englishman's,  was  to  keep  the  country  quiet,  and  the  French  out  of 
it;  and,  in  fine,  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  scheme. 

Of  the  existence  of  these  two  letters  and  the  contents  of  the 
pillow,  Colonel  Frank  Esmond,  who  became  Viscount  Castlewood, 
told  Henry  Esmond  afterwards,  when  the  letters  were  shown  to  his 
Lordship,  who  congratulated  himself,  as  he  had  good  reason,  that 
he  had  not  joined  in  the  scheme  which  proved  so  fatal  to  many 
concerned  in  it.  But,  naturally,  the  lad  knew  little  about  these 
circumstances  when  thej'  happened  under  his  eyes:  only  being 
aware  that  his  patron  and  his  mistress  were  in  some  trouble,  which 
had  caused  the  flight  of  the  one  and  the  apprehension  of  the  other 
by  the  officers  of  King  William. 

The  seizure  of  the  papers  effected,  the  gentlemen  did  not  pursue 
their  further  &earcli  through  Castlewood  House  very  rigorously. 
They  examined  Mr.  Holt's  room,  being  led  thither  by  his  pupil,  who 
showed,  as  the  Father  had  bidden  him,  the  place  where  the  key  of 
his  chamber  lay,  opened  the  door  for  the  gentlemen,  and  conducted 
them  into  the  room. 

When  the  gentlemen  came  to  the  half-burned  papers  in  the 
brazier,  they  examined  them  eagerly  enough,  and  their  young 
guide  was  a  little  amused  at  their  perplexit}'. 

"What  are  these?"  says  one. 

"They're  written  in  a  foreign  language,"  says  the  lawyer. 
"What  are  you  laughing  at,  little  whelp?"  adds  he,  turning  round 
as  he  saw  the  boy  smile. 

"Mr.  Holt  said  they  were  sermons,"  Harry  said,  "and  bade  me 
to  burn  them;"  which  indeed  was  true  of  those  papers. 

"Sermons  indeed— it's  treason,  I  would  lay  a  wager,"  cries  the 
lawyer. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  95 

"Egad!  it's  Greek  to  me,"  says  Captain  Westbury.  "Can  yc^ 
read  it,  little  boy?" 

"Yes,  sir,  a  little,"  Harry  said. 

"Then  read,  and  read  in  English,  sir,  on  your  peril,"  said  the 
lawyer.     And  Harry  began  to  translate : — 

"  'Hath  not  one  of  your  own  writers  said,  "The  children  of 
Adam  are  now  labouring  as  much  as  he  himself  ever  did,  about  the 
tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  shaking  the  boughs  thereof, 
and  seeking  the  fruit,  being  for  the  most  part  unmindful  of  the  tree 
of  life."  O  blind  generation!  'tis  this  tree  of  knowledge  to  which 
the  serpent  has  led  you"  "—and  here  the  boy  was  obliged  to  stop, 
the  rest  of  the  page  being  charred  by  the  fire :  and  asked  of  the 
lawyer,  "Shall  I  go  on,  sir?" 

The  lawyer  said,  "This  boy  is  deeper  than  he  seems:  who  knows 
that  he  is  not  laughing  at  us?" 

"Let's  have  in  Dick  the  Scholar,"  cried  Captain  Westbury, 
laughing:  and  he  called  to  a  trooper  out  of  the  window — "Ho, 
Dick!  come  in  here  and  construe." 

A  thick-set  soldier,  with  a  square  good-humoured  face,  came  in 
at  the  summons,  saluting  his  officer. 

"Tell  us  what  is  this,  Dick,"  says  the  lawyer. 

"My  name  is  Steele,  sir,"  says  the  soldier.  "I  may  be  Dick  for 
my  friends,  but  I  don't  name  gentlemen  of  your  cloth  amongst 
them." 

"Well  then,  Steele." 

"Mr.  Steele,  sir,  if  you  please.  When  you  address  a  gentleman 
of  his  Majesty's  Horse  Guards,  be  pleased  not  to  be  so  famihar." 

"I  didn't  know,  sir,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"How  should  you?  I  take  it  you  are  not  accustomed  to  meet 
with  gentlemen,"  says  the  trooper. 

"Hold  thy  prate,  and  read  that  bit  of  jDaper,"  says  Westbury. 

"  'Tis  Latin,"  says  Dick,  glancing  at  it,  and  again  saluting  his 
officer,  "and  from  a  sermon  of  Mr.  Cud  worth's;"  and  he  trans- 
lated the  words  pretty  much  as  Henry  Esmond  had  rendered 
them. 


92  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

r      "What  a  young  scholar  you  are!"  says  the  Captain  to  the  boy 

''Depend  on"t,  he  knows  more  than  he  tells,'*  says  the  lawyer 
"I  think  we  will  pack  him  off  in  the  coach  with  old  Jezebel." 

"For  construing  a  bit  of  Latin?""  said  the  Captain,  very  good-   1 
naturedl3\ 

"I  would  as  lief  go  there  as  anywhere,'"  Harry  Esmond  said 
simply,  "for  there  is  nobodj'-  to  care  for  me." 

There  must  have  been  something  touching  in  the  child's  voice, 
or  in  this  description  of  his  solitude — for  the  Captain  looked  at  him 
very  good-naturedly,  and  the  trooper  called  Steele  put  his  hand 
kindly  on  the  lad"s  head,  and  said  some  words  in  the  Latin  tongue. 

"What  does  he  say?"  says  the  lawyer. 

"Faith,  ask  Dick  yourself,"  cried  Captain  Yv^'estbury. 

"I  said  I  was  not  ignorant  of  misfortune  myself,  and  had 
learned  to  succour  the  miserable,  and  that's  not  your  trade,  Mr. 
Sheepskin,"  said  the  trooper. 

"You  had  better  leave  Dick  the  Scholar  alone,  Mr.  Corbet,"  the 
Captain  said.  And  Harry  Esmond,  always  touched  by  a  kind  face 
and  kind  word,  felt  very  grateful  to  this  good-natured  champion. 

The  horses  were  by  this  time  harnessed  to  the  coach ;  and  the 
Countess  and  Victoire  came  down  and  were  put  into  the  vehicle. 
This  vv^oman,  who  quarrelled  with  Harry  Esmond  all  day,  was 
melted  at  parting  with  him,  and  called  him  "dear  angel,"  and 
"poor  infant,""  and  a  hundred  other  names. 

The  Viscountess,  giving  him  her  lean  hand  to  kiss,  bade  liim 
always  be  faithful  to  the  house  of  Esmond.  "If  evil  should 
happen  to  my  Lord,"'  says  she,  "his  successor,  I  trust,  will  be  found, 
and  give  you  protection.  Situated  as  I  am,  they  will  not  dare 
wreak  their  vengeance  on  nienoiv.''  And  she  kissed  a  medal  she 
wore  with  great  fervour,  and  Henry  Esmond  knew  not  in  the  least 
what  her  meaning  was;  but  hath  since  learned  that,  old  as  she  was, 
she  was  for  ever  expecting,  by  the  good  offices  of  saints  and  relics, 
to  have  an  heir  to  the  title  of  Esmond. 

Harry  Esmond  was  too  young  to  have  been  introduced  into  the 
secrets  of  politics  in  which  his  jjatrons  were  implicated;  for  they 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  95 

put  but  few  questions  to  the  boy  (who  was  little  of  stature,  and 
looked  mucli  younger  than  his  age),  and  such  questions  as  they  put 
he  answered  cautiously  enough,  and  professing  even  more  ignor- 
ance than  he  had,  for  which  his  examiners  willingly  enough  gave 
him  credit.  He  did  not  say  a  word  about  the  window  or  the  cup- 
board over  the  fireplace;  and  these  secrets  quite  escaped  the  eyes  of 
the  searchers. 

So  then  my  Lady  was  consigned  to  her  coach,  and  sent  off  to 
Hexton,  with  her  woman  and  the  man  of  law  to  bear  her  company, 
a  couple  of  troopers  riding  on  either  side  of  the  coach.  And  Harry 
was  left  behind  at  the  Hall,  belonging  as  it  were  to  nobody,  and 
quite  alone  in  the  world.  The  captain  and  a  guard  of  men 
remained  in  possession  there;  and  the  soldiers,  who  were  very 
good-natured  and  kind,  ate  my  Lord's  mutton  and  drank  his  wine, 
and  made  themselves  comfortable,  as  they  v^ell  might  do  in  such 
pleasant  quarters. 

The  captains  had  their  dinner  served  in  my  Lord's  tapestry  par- 
lour, and  poor  little  Harry  thought  his  duty  was  to  wait  upon 
Captain  Westbviry's  chair,  as  his  custom  had  been  to  serve  his  Lord 
when  he  sat  there. 

After  the  departure  of  the  Countess,  Dick  the  Scholar  took 
Harry  Esmond  under  his  special  protection,  and  would  examine 
him  in  his  humanities,  and  talk  to  him  both  of  French  and  Latin, 
in  which  tongues  the  lad  found,  and  his  new  friend  was  willing 
enough  to  acknowledge,  that  he  was  even  more  proficient  than 
Scholar  Dick.  Hearing  that  he  had  learned  them  from  a  Jesuit,  in 
the  praise  of  whom  and  whose  goodness  Harry  was  never  tired  of 
speaking,  Dick,  rather  to  the  boy's  surprise,  who  began  to  have  an 
early  shrewdness,  like  many  children  bred  up  alone,  showed  a  great 
deal  of  theological  science,  and  knowledge  of  the  points  at  issue 
between  the  two  churches;  so  that  he  and  Harry  would  have  hours 
of  controversy  together,  in  which  the  boy  was  certainly  worsted 
by  the  arguments  of  this  singular  trooper.  "I  am  no  common 
soldier,''  Dick  would  say,  and  indeed  it  was  easy  to  see  by  his 
learning,  breeding,  and  many  accomplishments,   that  he  was  not. 


96  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND 

"I  am  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  families  in  the  empire ;  I  have  had 
my  education  at  a  famous  school,  and  a  famous  university;  I 
learned  my  first  rudiments  of  Lati"  near  to  Smithfield,  in  London, 
where  the  martyrs  were  roasted." 

*'You  hanged  as  many  of  ours,"  interposed  Harry ;  "and,  for  the 
matter  of  persecution,  Father  Holt  told  me  that  a  young  gentleman 
of  Edinburgh,  eighteen  years  of  age,  student  at  the  college  there, 
was  hanged  for  heresy  only  last  year,  though  he  recanted,  and 
solemnly  asked  pardon  for  his  errors.'' 

"Faith!  there  has  been  too  much  persecution  on  both  sides:  but 
'twas  you  taught  us." 

"Nay,  'twas  the  Pagans  began  it,"  cried  the  lad,  and  began  to 
instance  a  number  of  saints  of  the  Church,  from  the  Protomartyr 
downwards — "this  one's  fire  went  out  under  him:  that  one's  oil 
cooled  in  the  caldron:  at  a  third  holy  head  the  executioner  chopped 
tliree  times  and  it  would  not  come  off.  Show  us  martyrs  in  your 
Church  for  whom  such  miracles  have  been  done." 

"Nay,"  says  the  trooper  gravely,  "the  miracles  of  the  first  three 
centuries  belong  to  my  Church  as  well  as  yours.  Master  Papist," 
and  then  added,  with  something  of  a  smile  upon  his  countenance, 
and  a  queer  look  at  Harry — "And  yet,  my  little  catechiser,  I  have 
sometimes  thought  about  those  miracles,  that  there  was  not  much 
good  in  them,  since  the  victim's  head  always  finished  by  coming  off 
at  the  third  or  fourth  chop,  and  the  caldron,  if  it  did  not  boil  one 
day,  boiled  the  next.  Howbeit,  in  our  times,  tlie  Church  has  lost 
that  questionable  advantage  of  respites.  There  never  was  a 
shov.-er  to  put  out  Ridley's  fire,  nor  an  angel  to  turn  the  edge  of 
Campion's  axe.  The  rack  tore  the  limbs  of  Southwell  the  Jesuit 
and  Sympson  the  Protestant  alike.  For  faith,  everywhere  multi- 
tudes die  willingly  enough.  I  have  read  in  Monsieur  Rycaut's 
'History  of  the  Turks,'  of  thousands  of  Mahomet's  followers  rush- 
ing upon  death  in  battle  as  upon  certain  Paradise;  and  in  the  Great 
Mogul's  dominions  people  fling  themselves  by  hundreds  under  the 
cars  of  the  idols  annually,  and  the  widows  burn  themselves  on  their 
husbands'  bodies,  as  'tis  well  known.    'Tis  not  the  dying  for  a  faith 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  97 

that's  so  hard,  Master  Harry — every  man  of  every  nation  has  done 
that — 'tis  the  living  up  to  it  that  is  difficult,  as  I  know  to  my  cost," 
he  added  with  a  sigh.  "And  ah!"  he  added,  "my  poor  lad,  lam 
not  strong  enough  to  convince  thee  by  my  life — though  to  die  for 
my  religion  would  give  me  the  greatest  of  joys — but  I  had  a  dear 
friend  in  Magdalen  College  in  Oxford:  I  wish  Joe  Addison  were 
here  to  convince  thee,  as  he  quickly  could — for  I  think  he's  a  match 
for  the  whole  College  of  Jesuits;  and  what's  more,  in  his  life  too. 
In  that  very  sermon  of  Doctor  Cudworth's  which  your  priest  was 
quoting  from,  and  which  suffered  martyrdom  in  the  brazier" — Dick 
added  with  a  smile.  "I  had  a  thought  of  wearing  the  black  coat 
(but  was  ashamed  of  my  life,  you  see,  and  took  to  this  sorry  red 
one) ;  I  have  often  thought  of  Joe  Addison — Doctor  Cudworth  says, 
'A  good  cimscience  is  the  best  looking-glass  of  heaven' — and  there's 
a  serenity  in  my  friend's  face  which  always  reflects  it — I  wish  you 
could  see  him,  Harry." 

"Did  he  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good?"  asked  the  lad  simply. 

"He  might  have  done,"  said  the  other — "at  least  he  taught  me 
to  see  and  approve  better  things.  'Tis  my  own  fault,  deteriora 
sequiy 

"You  seem  very  good,"  the  boy  said. 

"I'm  not  what  I  seem,  alas!"  answered  the  trooper — and  indeed, 
as  it  turned  out,  poor  Dick  told  the  truth— for  that  very  night,  at 
supper  in  the  hall,  where  the  gentlemen  of  the  troop  took  their 
repasts,  and  passed  most  part  of  their  days  dicing  and  smoking  of 
tobacco,  and  singing  and  cursing,  over  the  Castlewood  ale — Harry 
Esmond  found  Dick  the  Scholar  in  a  woeful  state  of  drunkenness. 
He  hiccupped  out  a  sermon ;  and  his  laughing  companions  bade  him 
sing  a  hymn,  on  which  Dick,  swearing  he  would  run  the  scoundrel 
through  the  body  who  insulted  his  religion,  made  for  his  sword, 
which  was  hanging  on  the  wall,  and  fell  down  flat  on  the  floor 
under  it,  saying  to  Harry,  who  ran  forward  to  help  him,  "Ah,  little 
Papist,  I  wish  Joseph  Addi.son  was  here!" 

Though  the  troopers  of  the  King's  Life  Guards  were  all  gentle- 
men, yet  the  rest  of   the  gentlemen  seemed  ignorant  and  vulgar 


98  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

boors  to  Harry  Esmond,  vrith  the  exception  of  this  good-natured 
Corporal  Steele  the  Scholar,  and  Captain  AVestbury  and  Lieutenant 
Trant,  who  were  always  kind  to  the  lad.  They  remained  for  some 
weeks  or  months  encamped  in  Castlewood,  and  Harry  learned  from 
them,  from  time  to  time,  how  the  lady  at  Hexton  Castle  was 
treated,  and  the  particulars  of  her  confinement  there.  'Tis  known 
that  King  William  was  disposed  to  deal  very  leniently  with  the 
gentry  who  remained  faithful  to  the  old  King's  cause;  and  no 
prince  usurping  a  crown,  as  his  enemies  said  he  did  (righteously 
taking  it,  as  I  think  now),  ever  caused  less  blood  to  be  shed.  As  for 
women  conspirators,  he  kept  spies  on  the  least  dangerous,  and 
locked  up  the  others.  Lady  Castlewood  had  the  best  rooms  in  Hex- 
ton  Castle,  and  the  gaoler's  garden  to  walk  in ;  and  though  she 
repeatedly  desired  to  be  led  out  to  execution,  like  Mary,  Queen  of 
Scots,  there  never  was  any  thought  of  taking  her  painted  old  head 
off,  or  any  desire  to  do  aught  but  keep  her  person  in  security. 

And  it  appeared  she  found  that  some  were  friends  in  her  misfor- 
tune, whom  she  had,  in  her  pro?perit}',  considered  as  her  worst 
enemies.  Colonel  Francis  Esmond,  my  Lord's  cousin  and  her 
Ladyship's,  who  had  married  the  Dean  of  Winchester's  daughter, 
and,  since  King  James's  departure  out  of  England,  had  lived  not 
ver}'  fur  away  from  Hexton  town,  hearing  of  his  kinswoman's 
strait,  and  being  friends  with  Colonel  Brice,  commanding  for  King 
William  in  Hexton,  and  with  the  Church  dignitaries  there,  came 
to  visit  her  Ladyship  in  prison,  offering  to  his  uncle's  daughter  any 
friendly  services  which  lay  in  his  power.  And  he  brought  his  lady 
and  little  daughter  to  see  the  prisoner,  to  the  latter  of  whom,  a 
child  of  great  beauty  and  many  winning  ways,  the  old  Viscountess 
took  not  a  little  liking,  although  between  her  Ladyship  and  the 
child's  mother  there  was  little  more  love  than  formerly.  There  are 
some  in  juries  which  women  never  forgive  one  another:  and  Madam 
Francis  Esmond,  in  marrying  her  cousin,  had  done  one  of  those 
irretrievable  wrongs  to  Lady  Castlewood.  But  as  she  was  now 
humiliated,  and  in  misfortune,  Madam  Francis  could  allow  a  truce 
tc  aer  enmity,  and  could  be  kind  for  a  while,  at  least,  to  he"  bus- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND  9S 

band's  discarded  mistress.  So  the  little  Beatrix,  her  daughter,  was 
permitted  often  to  go  and  visit  the  imprisoned  Viscountess,  who,  in 
so  far  as  the  child  and  its  father  were  concerned,  got  to  abate  in  her 
anger  towards  that  branch  of  the  Gastlewood  family.  And  tho 
letters  of  Colonel  Esmond  coming  to  light,  as  lias  been  said,  and 
his  conduct  being  known  to  the  King's  Council,  the  Colonel  was  put 
in  a  better  position  with  the  existing  government  than  he  had  ever 
before  been;  any  suspicions  regarding  his  loyalty  were  entirely  done 
away ;  and  so  he  was  enabled  to  be  of  more  service  to  his  kins- 
woman than  he  could  otherwise  have  been. 

And  now  there  befell  an  event  by  which  this  lady  recovered  her 
liberty,  and  the  house  of  Castlewood  got  a  new  owner,  and  father- 
less little  Harry  Esmond  a  new  and  most  kind  protector  and  friend. 
AVhatever  that  secret  was  which  Harry  was  to  hear  from  my  Lord, 
the  boy  never  heard  it ;  for  that  night  when  Father  Holt  arrived, 
and  carried  my  Lord  away  with  him,  was  the  last  on  which  Harry 
ever  saw  his  patron.  What  happened  to  my  Lord  may  be  briefly 
told  here.  Having  found  the  horses  at  the  place  where  they  were 
lying,  my  Lord  and  Father  Holt  rode  together  to  Chatteris,  where 
they  had  temporary  refuge  with  one  of  the  Father's  penitents  in 
that  city;  but  the  pursuit  being  hot  for  them,  and  the  reward  for 
the  apprehension  of  one  or  the  other  considerable,  it  was  deemed 
advisable  that  they  should  separate ;  and  the  priest  betook  himself 
to  other  places  of  retreat  known  to  him,  whilst  my  Lord  passed 
over  from  Bristol  into  Ireland,  in  which  kingdom  King  James  had 
a  court  and  an  army.  My  Lord  was  but  a  small  addition  to  this; 
bringing,  indeed,  only  his  sword  and  the  few  pieces  in  his  pocket ; 
but  tlie  King  received  him  with  some  kindness  and  distinction  in 
spite  of  his  poor  plight,  confirmed  him  in  his  new  title  of  Marquis, 
gave  him  a  regiment,  and  promised  him  further  promotion.  But 
title  or  promotion  were  not  to  benefit  him  now.  My  Lord  was 
wounded  at  the  fatal  battle  of  the  Boyne,  flying  from  which  field 
(long  after  his  master  had  set  him  an  example)  he  lay  for  a  while 
concealed  in  the  marshy  country  near  to  the  town  of  Trim,  and 
more  from  catarrh  and  fever  caught  in  the  bogs  than  from  the  steel 


100  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

of  the  enemy  in  the  battle,  sank  and  died.  May  the  earth  lie  light 
upon  Thomas  of  Castlewood !  He  who  writes  this  must  speak  in  char- 
ity, though  this  lord  did  him  and  his  two  grievous  wrongs:  for  one  of 
these  he  would  have  made  amends,  perhaps,  had  life  been  spared 
him ;  but  the  other  lay  beyond  his  power  to  repair,  though  'tis  to  be 
hoped  that  a  greater  Power  than  a  priest  has  absolved  him  of  it. 
He  got  the  comfort  of  this  absolution,  too,  such  as  it  was:  a  priest  of 
Trim  writing  a  letter  to  my  Lady  to  inform  her  of  this  calamity. 

But  in  those  days  letters  were  slow  of  travelling,  and  our  priest's 
took  two  months  or  more  on  its  journey  from  Ireland  to  England: 
where,  when  it  did  arrive,  it  did  not  find  my  Lady  at  her  own 
house;  she  was  at  the  King's  house  of  Hexton  Castle  when  the 
letter  came  to  Castlewood,  but  it  was  opened  for  all  that  by  the 
oflBcer  in  command  there. 

Harry  Esmond  well  remembered  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  which 
Lockwood  brought  in  as  Captain  Westbury  and  Lieutenant  Trant 
were  on  the  Green  playing  at  bowls,  young  Esmond  looking  on  at 
the  sport,  or  reading  his  book  in  the  arbour. 

"Here's  news  for  Frank  Esmond,"  says  Captain  Westbury. 
"Harry,  did  you  ever  see  Colonel  Esmond?"  And  Captain  West- 
bury looked  very  hard  at  the  boy  as  he  spoke. 

Harry  said  he  had  seen  him  but  once  when  he  was  at  Hexton,  at 
the  ball  there. 

"And  did  he  say  anj^thing?" 

"He  said  what  I  don't  care  to  repeat,"  Harry  answered.  For  he 
was  now  twelve  years  of  age ;  he  knew  what  his  birth  was,  and  the 
disgrace  of  it ;  and  he  felt  no  love  towards  the  man  who  had  most 
likely  stained  his  mother's  honour  and  his  own. 

"Did  you  love  my  Lord  Castlewood?" 

"I  wait  until  I  know  my  mother,  sir,  to  say,"  the  boy  answered, 
his  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"Something  has  happened  to  Lord  Castlewood,"  Captain  West- 
bury said  in  a  very  grave  tone — "something  which  must  happen  to 
us  all.  He  is  dead  of  a  wound  received  at  the  Boyne,  fighting  for 
King:  James." 


I 

\ 

THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  101  ^ 

*'I  am  glad  my  Lord  fought  for  the  right  cause,"  the  boy  said. 
*'It  was  better  to  meet  death  on  the  field  like  a  man,  than  face  ; 
it  on  Tower  Hill,  as  some  of  them  may,"  continued  Mr.  Westbury,  : 
"I  hope  he  has  made  some  testament   or  provided  for  thee  some- 
how.    This  letter  says  he  recommends  nniciun  filium  siium  dileetis-  ; 
simum  to  his  Lady.     I  hope  he  has  left  you  more  than  that.' 

Harry  did  not  know,  he  said.     He  was  in  the  hands  of  Heaven  ; 

and  Fate;  but  more  lonely  now,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  than  he  had  ] 

been  all  the  rest  of  his  life ;  and  that  night,  as  he  lay  in  his  little  ; 

room  which  he  still  occupied,  the  boy  thought  with  many  a  pang  of  i 

shame  and  grief  of  his  strange  and  solitary  condition: — how  he  had  i 

a  father  and  no  father ;  a  nameless  mother  that  had  been  brought  I 

to   ruin,    perhaps,   by  that   very   father   whom   Harry  could  only  ■ 

acknowledge   in   secret  and  with  a  blush,    and   whom  he  could  ; 

neither  love  nor  revere.     And  he  sickened  to  think  how  Father  i 

Holt,  a  stranger,  and  two  or  three  soldiers,  his  acquaintances  of  the  i 

last  six  weeks,   were  the  only  friends  he  had  in  the  great  wide  j 

world,  where  he  was  now  quite  alone.    The  soul  of  the  boy  was  full  ; 
of  love,  and  he  longed  as  he  lay  in  the  darkness  there  for  some  one 

upon  whom  he  could  bestow  it.     He  remembers,  and  must  to  his  i 

dying  day,  the  thoughts  and  tears  of  that  long  night,  the  hours  ! 

tolling  through  it.    "Who  was  he,  and  what?    Why  here  rather  than  ■ 

elsewhere?    I  have  a  mind,  he  thought,  to  go  to  that  priest  at  Trim,  j 

and  find  out  wliat  my  father  sa-id  to  him  on  his  depth- bed  confes-  | 
fcion.     Is  there  any  child  in  the  whole  ^^orld  so  unprotected  as  I 

am?    Shall  I  get  up  and  quit  this  place,  and  run  to  Ireland?     With  • 

tliese  thoughts  and  tears  the  lad  passed  that  night  away  until  he  ! 

wept  himself  to  sleep.  j 

The  next  day,  the  gentlemen  of  the  guard,  who  had  heard  what 
had   befallen   him,    were   more   than   usually   kind   to   the    child, 

especially  his  friend   Scholar  Dick,  who  told  him  about  his  own  , 

father's  death,  which  had  happened  when  Dick  was  a  child  at  Dub-  ; 

lin,  not  quite  five  years  of  age.     "That  was  the  first  sensation  of  ' 

I  grief,"  Dick  said,  ''I  ever  knew.     I  remember  I  went  into  the  room  ! 

j  where  his  body  lay,  and  my  mother  sat  weeping  beside  it.     I  had  j 


102  THE  t^lSi:Ol?V  OF  RfcNRY  ESMOND 

my  battledore  in  my  hand,  and  fell  a-beating  the  coffin,  and  calling 
pap?*;  on  which  my  mother  caught  me  in  her  arms,  and  told  me  in 
a  flood  of  tears  papa  could  not  hear  me,  and  would  play  with  me 
no  more,  for  they  were  going  to  put  him  under  ground,  whence  lie 
could  never  come  to  us  again.  And  this,"  said  Dick  kindly,  "has 
made  me  pity  all  children  ever  since ;  and  caused  me  to  love  thee, 
my  poor  fatherless,  motherless  lad.  And,  if  ever  thou  wantest  a 
friend,  thou  shalt  have  one  in  Richard  Steele." 

Harry  Esmond  thanked  him,  and  was  grateful.  But  what  could 
Corporal  Steele  do  for  him?  take  him  to  ride  a  spare  horse,  and  be 
servant  to  the  troop?  Though  there  might  be  a  bar  in  Harry 
Esmond's  shield,  it  was  a  noble  one.  The  counsel  of  the  two 
friends  was,  that  little  Harry  should  stay  where  he  was,  and  abide 
his  fortune:  so  Esmond  stayed  on  at  Castlewood,  awaiting  with  no 
small  anxiety  the  fate,  whatever  it  was,  which  was  over  him. 


CHAPTER  YU 

I  AM   LEFT   AT    CASTLEWOOD   AX   ORPHAN,    AND   FIND   M9.ST   KIND 
PROTECTORS  THERE 

During  the  stay  of  the  soldiers  in  Castlewood,  honest  Dick  the 
Scholar  was  the  constant  companion  of  the  lonely  little  orphan  lad, 
Harry  Esmond:  and  they  read  together,  and  they  played  bowls 
together,  and  when  the  other  troopers  or  their  officers,  who  were  free- 
spoken  over  their  cups  (as  was  the  way  of  that  day,  when  neither 
men  nor  women  were  over-nice),  talked  unbecomingly  of  their 
amours  and  gallantries  before  the  child,  Dick,  who  verj^  likely  was 
setting  the  whole  company  laughing,  would  stop  their  jokes  with  a 
maxima  debetur  pueris  reverentia,  and  once  offered  to  lug  out 
against  another  trooper  called  Hulking  Tom,  who  wanted  to  i,sk 
Harry  Esmond  a  ribald  question. 

Also  Dick,  seeing  that  the  child  had,  as  he  said,  a  sensibility 
above  his  years,  and  a  great  and  praiseworthy  discretion,  confided 
to  Harry  his  love  for  a  vintner's  daughter,  near  to  the  Toilyard, 
Westminster,  whom  Dick  addressed  as  Saccharissa  in  manj'  verses  of 
his  composition,  and  without  whom  he  said  it  would  be  impossible 
that  he  could  continue  to  live.  He  vowed  this  a  thousand  times  a 
daj',  though  Harry  smiled  to  see  the  love-lorn  swain  had  his  health 
and  appetite  as  well  as  the  most  heart-whole  trooper  in  tJie  regi- 
ment: and  he  swore  Harry  to  secrecy  too,  which  vow  the  lad  relig- 
iousl}'  kept,  until  he  found  that  officers  and  privates  were  all 
taken  into  Dick's  confidence,  and  had  the  benefit  of  his  verses. 
And  it  must  be  owned  likewise  that,  wliile  Dick  was  sighing  after 
Saccharissa  in  London,  lie  had  consolations  in  the  country;  for 
there  came  a  wench  out  of  Castlewood  village  who  had  washed  his 
linen,  and  who  cried  sadly  when  she  heard  he  was  gone :  and  with- 
out paying  her  bill  too,  which  Harry  Esmond  took  upon  himself  to 

103 


104  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

discliarge  bj-  giving  the  girl  a  silver  pocket-piece,  which  Scholar 
Dick  had  presented  to  him,  when,  with  many  embraces  and  prayers 
for  his  prosperity,  Dick  parted  from  him,  the  garrison  of  Castle- 
wood  being  ordered  away.  Dick  the  Scholar  said  he  would  never 
forget  his  young  friend,  nor  indeed  did  he:  and  Harry  was  sorry 
when  the  kind  soldiers  vacated  Castlewood,  looking  forward  with 
no  small  anxiety  (for  care  and  solitude  had  made  him  thoughtful 
beyond  his  years)  to  his  fate  when  the  new  lord  and  lady  of  the 
house  came  to  live  there.  He  had  lived  to  be  past  twelve  years  old 
now ;  and  had  never  had  a  friend,  save  this  wild  trooper  perhaps, 
and  Father  Holt ;  and  had  a  fond  and  affectionate  heart,  tender  to 
weakness,  that  would  fain  attach  itself  to  somebody,  and  did  not 
seem  at  rest  until  it  had  found  a  friend  who  would  take  charge 
of  it. 

The  instinct  which  led  Henry  Esmond  to  admire  and  love  the 
gracious  person,  the  fair  apparition  of  whose  beauty  and  kindness 
liad  so  moved  him  when  he  first  beheld  her,  became  soon  a  devoted 
affection  and  passion  of  gratitude,  which  entirely  filled  his  young 
heart,  that  as  yet,  except  in  the  case  of  dear  Father  Holt,  had  had 
very  little  kindness  for  which  to  be  thankful.  0  Dca  certe,  thought 
he,  remembering  the  lines  of  the  ^neis  which  Mr.  Holt  had  taught 
him,  There  seemed,  as  the  boy  thought,  in  every  look  or  gesture 
of  this  fair  creature,  an  angelical  softness  and  bright  pity — in 
motion  or  repose  she  seemed  gracious  alike ;  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
though  she  uttered  words  ever  so  trivial,  gave  him  a  pleasure  that 
amounted  almost  to  anguish.  It  cannot  be  called  love,  that  a  lad 
of  twelve  years  of  age,  little  more  than  a  menial,  felt  for  an 
exalted  lady,  his  mistress:  but  it  was  worship.  To  catch  her 
glance,  to  divine  her  errand  and  run  on  it  before  she  had  spoken  it ; 
to  watch,  follow,  adore  her;  became  the  business  of  his  life.  Mean- 
while, as  is  the  way  often,  his  idol  had  idols  of  her  own,  and  never 
thought  of  or  suspected  the  admiration  of  her  little  pigmy  adorer. 

My  Lady  had  on  her  side  her  three  idols:  first  and  foremost,  Jove 
and  supreme  ruler,  was  her  lord,  Harry's  patron,  the  good  Viscount 
of  Castlewood.     All  wishes  of  his  were  laws  with  her.     If  he  had 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  105 

a  headache,  she  was  ill.  If  he  frowned,  she  trembled.  If  he  joked, 
she  smiled  and  was  charmed.  If  he  went  a-hunting,  she  was 
ahvays  at  the  window^  to  see  him  ride  away,  her  little  son  crowing 
on  her  arm,  or  on  the  watch  till  his  return.  She  made  dishes  for 
his  dinner:  spiced  his  wine  for  him:  made  the  toast  for  his  tankard 
at  breakfast:  hushed  the  house  when  he  slept  in  his  chair,  and 
watched  for  a  look  when  he  woke.  If  my  Lord  was  not  a  little 
proud  of  his  beauty,  my  Lady  adored  it.  She  clung  to  his  arm  as 
he  paced  the  terrace,  her  two  fair  little  hands  clasped  round  his 
great  one;  her  eyes  were  never  tired  of  looking  in  his  face  and 
wondering  at  its  perfection.  Her  little  son  was  his  son,  and  had 
his  father's  look  and  curly  brown  hair.  Her  daughter  Beatrix  was 
his  daughter,  and  had  his  eyes — were  there  ever  such  beautiful  eyes 
in  the  world?  All  the  house  was  arranged  so  as  to  bring  him  ease 
and  give  him  pleasure.  She  liked  the  small  gentry  round  about  to 
come  and  pay  him  court,  never  caring  for  admiration  for  herself; 
those  who  wanted  to  be  well  with  the  lady  must  admire  him.  Not 
regarding  her  dress,  she  would  wear  a  gown  to  rags,  because  he 
had  once  liked  it:  and,  if  he  brought  her  a  brooch  or  a  ribbon, 
would  prefer  it  to  all  the  most  costly  articles  of  her  wardrobe. 

My  Lord  went  to  London  every  year  for  six  weeks,  and  the  fam- 
ily being  too  poor  to  appear  at  Court  with  any  figure,  he  went 
alone.  It  was  not  until  he  was  out  of  sight  that  her  face  showed 
any  sorrow :  and  what  a  joy  when  he  came  back !  What  prepara- 
tion before  his  return!  The  fond  creature  had  his  armchair  at  the 
chimney-side — delighting  to  put  the  children  in  it,  and  look  at 
them  there.  Nobody  took  his  place  at  the  table;  but  his  silver 
tankard  stood  there  as  when  my  Lord  was  present. 

A  pretty  sight  it  was  to  see,  during  my  Lord's  absence,  or  on 
those  many  mornings  when  sleep  or  headache  kept  him  a-bed,  this 
fair  young  lady  of  Castlewood,  her  little  daughter  at  her  knee,  and 
her  domestics  gathered  round  her,  reading  the  Morning  Prayer  of 
the  English  Church.  Esmond  long  remembered  how  she  looked 
and  spoke,  kneeling  reverently  before  the  sacred  book,  the  sun 
j  shining  upon  her  golden  hair  until  it  made  a  halo  round  about  her. 


i06  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

A  dozen  of  the  servants  of  the  house  kneeled  in  a  line  opposite  their 
mistress.  For  a  while  Harry  Esmond  kept  apart  from  these  mys- 
teries, but  Doctor  Tusher  showing  him  that  the  prayers  read  were 
those  of  the  Church  of  all  ages,  and  the  boy's  own  inclination 
prompting  him  to  be  always  as  near  as  he  might  to  his  mistress, 
and  to  think  all  things  she  did  right,  from  listening  to  the  prayers 
in  the  ante  chamber,  he  came  presently  to  kneel  down  with  the  rest 
of  the  household  in  the  parlour ;  and  before  a  couple  of  years  my 
Lady  had  made  a  thorough  convert.  Indeed  the  boy  loved  liis  cat- 
echiser  so  much  that  he  would  have  subscribed  to  anything  she 
bade  him,  and  was  never  tired  of  listening  to  her  fond  discourse 
and  simple  comments  upon  the  book,  which  she  read  to  him  in  a 
voice  of  which  it  was  difficult  to  resist  the  sweet  persuasion  and 
tender  appealing  kindness.  This  friendly  controversy,  and  the 
intimacy  which  it  occasioned,  bound  the  lad  more  fondly  than  ever 
to  his  mistress.  The  happiest  period  of  all  his  life  was  this ;  and 
^  the  young  mother,  with  her  daughter  and  son,  and  the  orphan  lad 
Ir  whom  she  protected,  read  and  worked  and  played,  and  were  chil- 
dren together.  If  the  lady  looked  forward — as  what  fond  woman 
does  not?— towards  the  future,  she  had  no  plans  from  which  Harry 
Esmond  was  left  out ;  and  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times,  in  his 
passionate  and  impetuous  way,  he  vowed  that  no  power  should  sep- 
arate him  from  his  mistress;  and  only  asked  for  some  cliance  to 
happen  by  which  he  might  show  his  fidelit}'  to  her.  Now,  at  the 
close  of  his  life,  as  he  sits  and  recalls  in  tranquillity  the  happy  and 
busy  scenes  of  it,  he  can  think,  not  ungratefully,  that  he  lias  been 
faithful  to  that  early  vow.  Such  a  life  is  so  simple  that  years  may 
be  chronicled  in  a  few  lines.  But  few  men's  life-voyages  are  des- 
tined to  be  all  prosperous;  and  this  calm  of  which  we  are  speaking 
was  soon  to  come  to  an  end. 

As  Esmond  grew,  and  observed  for  himself,  he  found  of  neces- 
sity much  to  read  and  think  of  outside  that  fond  circle  of  kinsfolk 
who  liad  admitted  him  to  join  hand  with  them.  He  read  more 
books  than  they  cared  to  study  with  him ;  was  alone  in  the  midst 
of  them  many  a  time,  and  passed  nights  over  labours,  futile  per- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  107 

haps,  but  in  which  they  could  not  join  him.  His  clear  mistress 
divined  his  thoughts  with  her  usual  jealous  watchfulness  of  affec- 
tion: began  to  forebode  a  time  when  he  would  escape  from  liis 
home-nest ;  and,  at  his  eager  protestations  to  the  contrary,  would 
only  sigh  and  shake  her  head.  Before  those  fatal  decrees  in  life  are 
executed,  there  are  always  secret  previsions  and  warning  omens. 
When  everything  yet  seems  calm,  we  are  aware  that  the  storm  is 
coming.  Ere  the  happy  days  were  over,  two  at  least  of  that  liome- 
party  felt  that  they  were  drawing  to  a  close ;  and  were  uneasy,  and 
on  the  look-out  for  the  cloud  which  was  to  obscure  their  calm. 

"Twas  easy  for  Harry  to  see,  however  much  his  lady  persisted  in 
obedience  and  admiration  for  her  husband,  that  my  Lord  tired   of 
his  quiet  life,   and  grew  weary,   and  then  testy,   at  those  gentle 
bonds  with  which  his  wife  would  have  held  him.     As  they  say  the 
Grand  Lama  of  Thibet  is  very  much  fatigued  by  his  character  of 
divinity,  and  yawns  on  his  altar  as  his  bonzes  kneel  and  worship 
him,  many  a  home-god  grows  heartily  sick  of  the  reverence  with 
which  his  family-devotees  pursue  him,  and  sighs  for  freedom  and 
for  his  old  life,  and  to  be  off  the  pedestal  on  which  his  dependants 
would  have  him  sit  for  ever,  whilst  they  adore  him,  and  pl}^  him 
with  flowers,  and  hymns,  and  incense,  and  flattery ;— so,  after  a  few 
years  of  his  marriage  my  honest  Lord  Castlewood  began  to  tire ;  all 
the  high-flown  raptures  and  devotional  ceremonies  with  which  his 
wife,  his  chief -priestess,  treated  him,   first  sent  him  to  sleep,  and 
then  drove  him  out  of  doors;  for  the  truth  must  be  told,  that  my 
iLord  was  a  jolly  gentleman,  with  very  little  of  the  august  or  divine 
i  in  his  nature,  though  his  fond  wife  persisted  in  revering  it— and, 
besides,  he  had  to  pay  a  penalty  for  this  love,  which  persons  of  his 
i  disposition  seldom  like  to  defray:  and,  in  a  word,  if  he  had  a  loving 
I  wife,  had  a  very  jealous  and  exacting  one.     Then  he  wearied  of 
I  this  jealousy ;  then  he  broke  away  from  it;  then  came,  no  doubt. 
(Complaints  and  recriminations;  then,  perhaps,  promises  of  amend- 
ment not  fulfilled ;  then  upbraidings  not  the  more  pleasant  because 
they  were  silent,  and  only  sad  looks  and  tearful  eyes  conveyed 
them.     Then,  perhaps,  the  pair  reaclied  that  other  stage  which  is 


108  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

not  uncommon  in  married  life,  when  the  woman  perceives  that  tho 
god  of  the  honeymoon  is  a  god  no  more ;  only  a  mortal  like  the  resi 
of  us — and  so  she  looks  into  her  heart,  and  lo!  vaciice  secies  et  inania 
arcana.  And  now,  supposing  our  lady  to  have  a  fine  genius  and  a 
brilliant  wit  of  her  own,  and  the  magic  spell  and  infatuation 
removed  from  her  which  had  led  her  to  worship  as  a  god  a  very 
ordinary  mortal — and  what  follows?  They  live  togetlier,  and  they 
dine  together,  and  they  say  "my  dear"  and  "my  love"  as  hereto- 
fore; but  the  man  is  himself,  and  the  woman  herself:  that  dream 
of  love  is  over  as  everything  else  is  over  in  life;  as  flowers  and  fury, 
and  griefs  and  pleasures  are  over. 

Very  likely  the  Lady  Castlewood  had  ceased  to  adore  her  hus- 
band herself  long  before  she  got  off  her  knees,  or  would  allow  hei 
household  to  discontinue  worshipping  him.  To  do  him  justice,  my 
Lord  never  exacted  this  subservience:  he  laughed  and  joked  and 
drank  his  bottle,  and  swore  vrlien  he  was  angry,  much  too  famil 
iarly  for  any  one  pretending  to  sublimity;  and  did  liis  best  ta 
destroy  the  ceremonial  with  which  his  wife  chose  to  surround  him. 
And  it  required  no-  great  conceit  on  young  Esmond's  part  to  seo 
that  his  own  brains  were  better  than  his  patron's,  who,  indeed 
never  assumed  any  airs  of  superiority  over  the  lad,  or  over  anj 
dependant  of  his,  save  when  he  was  displeased,  in  which  case  ha 
would  express  his  mind  in  oaths  very  freely;  and  who,  on  the  con 
trary,  perhaps,  spoiled  "Parson  Harry,"  as  he  called  young  Esmond, 
by  constantly  praising  his  parts  and  admiring  his  boyish  stock  ci 
learning. 

It  may  seem  ungracious  in  one  who  has  received  a  hundreJ 
favours  from  his  patron  to  speak  in  any  but  a  reverential  manner 
of  his  elders;  but  the  present  writer  has  had  descendants  of  his 
own,  whom  he  has  brought  up  with  as  little  as  possible  of  the  ser- 
vility at  present  exacted  by  parents  from  children  (under  which 
mask  of  duty  there  often  lurks  indifference,  contempt,  or  rebel- 
lion): and  as  he  would  have  his  grandsons  believe  or  represent  him 
to  be  not  an  inch  taller  than  Nature  has  made  him :  so,  with  regard 
to  his  past  acquaintances,  he  would  spea.k  without  anger,  but  with 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  109 

truth,  as  far  as  he  knows  it,  neither  extenuating  nor  setting  down 
aught  in  malice. 

So  long,  then,  as  the  world  moved  according  to  Lord  Castle- 
wood's  wishes,  he  was  good-humoured  enough ;  of  a  temper  natu- 
rally sprightly  and  easy,  liking  to  joke,  especially  with  his  inferiors, 
and  charmed  to  receive  the  tribute  of  their  laughter.  All  exercises 
of  the  body  he  could  perform  to  perfection — shooting  at  a  mark 
and  flying,  breaking  horses,  riding  at  the  ring,  pitching  the  quoi!t, 
playing  at  all  games  with  great  skill.  And  not  only  did  he  do 
these  things  well,  but  he  thought  he  did  them  to  perfection ;  hence 
he  was  often  tricked  about  horses,  which  he  pretended  to  know 
better  than  any  jockey ;  was  made  to  play  at  ball  and  billiards  by 
sharpers  who  took  his  money,  and  came  back  from  London  woefully 
poorer  each  time  than  he  went,  as  the  state  of  his  affairs  testified 
when  the  sudden  accident  came  by  which  his  career  was  brought 
to  an  end. 

He  was  fond  of  the  parade  of  dress,  and  passed  as  many  hours 
daily  at  his  toilette  as  an  elderly  coquette.  A  tenth  part  of  his  day 
was  spent  in  the  brushing  of  his  teeth,  and  the  oiling  of  his  hair, 
which  was  curling  and  brown,  and  which  he  did  not  like  to  conceal 
under  a  periwig,  such  as  almost  everybody  of  that  time  wore.  (We 
have  the  liberty  of  our  hair  back  now,  but  powder  and  pomatum 
along  with  it.  When,  I  wonder,  will  these  monstrous  poll-taxes  of 
our  age  be  withdrawn,  and  men  allowed  to  carry  their  colours, 
black,  red,  or  grey,  as  Nature  made  them?)  And  as  he  liked  her  to 
be  well  dressed,  his  lady  spared  no  pains  in  that  matter  to  please 
him;  indeed,  she  would  dress  her  head  or  cut  it  off  if  he  had 
bidden  her. 

It  was  a  wonder  to  young  Esmond,  serving  as  page  to  my  Lord 
and  Lady,  to  hear,  day  after  day,  to  such  company  as  came,  the 
same  boisterous  stories  told  by  my  Lord,  at  wliich  his  lady  never 
failed  to  smile  or  hold  down  her  head,  and  Doctor  Tusher  to  burst 
out  laughing  at  the  proper  point,  or  cry,  "Fie,  my  Lord,  remember 
my  cloth  1"  but  with  such  a  faint  show  of  resistance,  that  it  only 
provoked  my  Lord   further.     Lord  Castlewood's    stories  rose  by 


no  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

degrees,  and  became  stronger  after  the  ale  at  dinner  and  the  bottle 
afterwards ;  my  Lady  always  taking  flight  after  the  very  first  glass 
to  Church  and  King,  and  leaving  the  gentlemen  to  drink  the  rest 
of  tlie  toasts  by  themselves. 

And,  as  Harry  Esmond  was  her  page,  he  also  was  called  from 
duty  at  this  time.  "My  Lord  has  lived  in  the  army  and  with  sol- 
diers," she  would  say  to  the  lad,  "amongst  whom  great  licence  is 
allowed.  You  have  had  a  different  nurture,  and  I  triLst  these 
things  will  change  as  you  grow  older;  not  that  any  fault  attaches 
to  my  Lord,  who  is  one  of  the  best  and  most  religious  men  in  this 
kingdom."  And  very  likely  she  believed  so.  'Tis  strange  what  a 
man  may  do,  and  a  woman  yet  think  him  an  angel. 

And  as  Esmond  has  taken  truth  for  his  motto,  it  must  be  owned, 
even  with  regard  to  that  other  angel,  his  mistress,  that  she  had  a 
fault  of  character  which  flawed  her  perfections.  With  the  other 
sex  perfectly  tolerant  and  kindly,  of  her  own  she  was  invariably 
jealous;  and  a  proof  that  she  had  this  vice  is,  that  though  she 
would  acknow^ledge  a  thousand  faults  that  she  had  not,  to  this 
which  she  had  she  could  never  be  got  to  own.  But  if  there  came  a 
woman  with  even  a  semblance  of  beautj'  to  Castlewood,  she  was  so 
sure  to  find  out  some  wrong  in  her,  that  my  Lord,  laughing  in  hia 
jolly  way,  would  often  joke  with  her  concerning  her  foible. 
Comely  servant-maids  might  come  for  hire,  but  none  were  taken 
at  Castlewood.  The  housekeeper  was  old ;  my  Ladj-'s  own  waiting- 
woman  squinted,  and  was  marked  with  the  smallpox ;  the  house- 
maids and  scullion  were  ordinary  country  wenches,  to  whom  Lady 
Castlewood  was  kind,  as  her  nature  made  her  to  everybody  almost; 
but  as  soon  as  ever  she  had  to  do  with  a  prett}'  woman,  she  was 
cold,  retiring,  and  haughty.  The  country  ladies  found  this  fault  in 
her ;  and  though  the  men  all  admired  her,  their  wives  and  daugh- 
ters complained  of  her  coldness  and  airs,  and  said  that  Castlewood 
was  pleasanter  in  Lady  Jezebel's  time  (as  the  dowager  was  called) 
than  at  present.  Some  few  were  of  my  mistress's  side.  Old  Lady 
L'lenkinsop  Jointure,  who  had  been  at  Court  in  King  James  the 
l';r.st"s  time,  always  took  her  side;  and  so  did  old  Mistress  Crook 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  111 

shank.  Bishop  Crookshank's  daughter,  of  Hexton,  who,  with  soma 
more  of  their  like,  pronounced  my  Lady  an  angel :  but  the  prettj* 
women  were  not  of  this  mind ;  and  the  opinion  of  the  country  was 
that  my  Lord  was  tied  to  his  wife's  apron-strings,  and  that  she 
ruled  over  him. 

Tlie  second  fight  which  Harry  Esmond  had,  was  at  fourteen 
years  of  age,  with  Bryan  Hawkshaw,  Sir  John  Hawkshaw's  son,  of 
Bramblebrook,  who,  advancing  his  opinion,  that  my  Lady  was  jeal- 
ous and  henpecked  my  Lord,  put  Harry  in  such  a  fury,  that  Harry 
fell  on  him  and  with  such  rage,  that  the  other  boy,  who  was  two 
years  older  and  by  far  bigger  than  he,  had  by  far  the  worst  of  the 
assault,  until  it  was  interrupted  by  Doctor  Tushcr  walking  out  of 
the  dinner-room. 

^r^^an  Hawkshaw  got  up  bleeding  at  the  nose,  having,  indeed, 
been  surprised,  as  many  a  stronger  man  might  have  been,  by  the 
fury  of  the  assault  upon  him. 

"You  little  bastard  beggar!"  he  said,  "I'll  murder  you  for  this!" 

And  indeed  he  was  big  enough. 

"Bastard  or  not,"  said  tlie  other,  grinding  his  teeth,  "I  have  a 
couple  of  swords,  and  if  you  like  to  meet  me,  as  a  man,  on  the  ter- 
race to-night " 

And  here  the  Doctor  coming  up,  the  colloquy  of  the  young 
champions  ended.  Very  likely,  big  as  he  was,  Hawkshaw  did  not 
care  to  continue  a  fight  with  such  a  ferocious  opponent  as  this  had 
been. 


CHAPTER  Vni 

AFTER  GOOD  FORTUNE   COMES  EVIL 

Since  my  Ijady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  brouglit  home  the  custom 
of  inoculation  from  Turkey  (a  perilous  practice  many  deem  it,  and 
only  a  useless  rushing  into  the  jaws  of  danger),  I  think  the 
severity  of  the  smallpox,  that  dreadful  scourge  of  the  world,  has 
somewhat  been  abated  in  our  part  of  it ;  and  reinember  in  my  time 
hundreds  of  the  young  and  beautiful  who  have  been  carried  to  the 
grave,  or  have  only  risen  from  their  pillows  frightfully  scarred  and 
disfigured  by  this  malady.  Many  a  sweet  face  hath  left  its  roses  on 
the  bed  on  which  this  dreadful  and  withering  blight  has  laid  them. 
In  my  early  days,  this  pestilence  would  enter  a  village  and  destroy 
half  its  inhabitants:  at  its  approach,  it  may  well  be  imagined  not 
only  the  beautiful  but  the  strongest  were  alarmed,  and  those  fled 
who  could.  One  day  in  the  year  1694  (I  have  good  reason  to 
remember  it),  Dr.  Tusher  ran  into  Castlewood  house,  with  a  face 
of  consternation,  saying  that  the  malady  had  made  its  appearance 
at  the  blacksmith's  house  in  the  village,  and  that  one  of  the  maids 
there  was  down  in  the  smallpox. 

The  blacksmith,  besides  his  forge  and  irons  for  horses,  had  an 
alehouse  for  men,  which  his  wife  kept,  and  his  company  sat  on 
benches  before  the  inn  door,  looking  at  the  smithy  while  they 
drank  their  beer.  Now,  there  was  a  pretty  girl  at  this  inn,  the 
landlord's  men  called  Nancy  Sievewright,  a  bouncing,  fresh-looking 
lass,  whose  face  was  as  red  as  the  hollyhocks  over  the  pales  of  the 
garden  behind  the  inn.  At  this  time  Harry  Esmond  was  a  lad  of 
sixteen,  and  somehow  in  his  walks  and  rambles  it  often  happened 
that  he  fell  in  with  Nancy  Sievewright's  bonny  face;  if  he  did  not 
want  something  done  at  the  blacksmith's  he  would  go  and  drink 
ale  at  the  "Three  Castles,"  or  find  some  pretext  for  seeing  this  poor 

112 


j 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  113 

Nancy.  Poor  thing,  Hariy  meant  or  imagined  no  harm ;  and  she, 
no  doubt,  as  little ;  but  the  truth  is  they  were  always  meeting — in 
the  lanes,  or  by  the  brook,  or  at  the  garden  palings,  or  about  Castle- 
wood:  it  was,  "Lord,  Mr.  Henry!"  and  "How  do  you  do,  Nancy?" 
many  and  many  a  time  in  the  week.  'Tis  surprising  the  magnetic 
attraction  which  draws  people  together  from  ever  so  far.  I  blush 
as  I  think  of  poor  Nancy  now,  in  a  red  bodice  and  buxom  purple 
cheeks  and  a  canvas  petticoat ;  and  that  I  devised  schemes,  and  set 
traps,  and  made  speeches  in  my  heart,  which  I  seldom  had  courage 
to  say  when  in  presence  of  that  humble  enchantress,  who  knew 
nothing  beyond  milking  a  cow,  and  opened  her  black  eyes  with 
wonder,  when  I  made  one  of  my  fine  speeches  out  of  Waller  or 
Ovid.  Poor  Nancy !  from  the  midst  of  far-off  years  thine  honest 
country  face  beams  out;  and  I  remember  thy  kind  voice  as  if  I  had 
heard  it  yesterday. 

When  Dr.  Tusher  brought  the  news  that  the  smallpox  was  at  the 
"Three  Castles,"'  whither  a  tramper,  it  was  said,  had  brought  the 
malady,  Henry  Esmond's  first  thought  was  of  alarm  for  poor 
Nancy,  and  then  of  shame  and  disquiet  for  the  Castlewood  family, 
lest  he  might  have  brought  this  infection;  for  the  truth  is  that  Mr 
Harry  had  been  sitting  in  a  back  room  for  an  hour  that  day,  wdiere 
Nancy  Sievewright  was  with  a  little  brother  who  complained  of 
headache,  and  was  lying  stupefied  and  crying,  either  in  a  chair  by 
the  corner  of  the  fire,  or  in  Nancy's  lap,  or  on  mine. 

Little  Lady  Beatrix  screamed  out  at  Dr.  Tusher's  news;  and  my 
Lord  cried  out,  "God  bless  me!"  He  was  a  brave  man,  and  not 
afraid  of  death  in  any  shape  but  this.  He  was  very  proud  of  his 
pink  complexion  and  fair  hair — but  the  idea  of  death  by  smallpox 
scared  him  bej^ond  all  other  ends.  "We  will  take  the  children  and 
ride  away  to-morrow  to  Walcote:"  this  was  my  Lord's  small  house, 
inherited  from  his  mother,  near  to  Winchester. 

"That  is  the  best  refuge  in  case  the  disease  spreads,"  said  Doctor 
Tusher.  "  'Tis  awful  to  think  of  it  beginning  at  the  alehouse;  half 
the  people  of  the  village  have  visited  that  to-day,  or  the  black- 
smith's, which  is  the  same  thing.     My  clerk  Nahum  lodges  with 


114  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

them — I  can  never  go  into  my  reading-desk  and  have  that  fellow  so 
near  me.     I  icon't  have  that  man  near  me." 

"If  a  parishioner  dying  in  the  small})Ox  sent  to  you,  would  3-ou 
not  go?"  asked  my  Lady,  looking  up  from  her  frame  of  work,  with 
her  calm  blue  eyes. 

"By  the  Lord,  J  wouldn't,"  said  my  Lord. 

"We  are  not  in  a  Popish  country;  and  a  sick  man  doth  not  abso- 
lutely need  absolution  and  confession,"  said  the  Doctor.  " 'Tis 
true  they  are  a  comfort  and  a  help  to  him  when  attainable,  and  to 
be  administered  with  hope  of  good.  But  in  a  case  where  the  life 
of  a  parish  priest  in  the  midst  of  his  flock  is  highly  valuable  to 
them,  he  is  not  called  upon  to  risk  it  (and  therewith  the  lives, 
future  prospects,  and  temporal,  even  spiritual  welfare  of  his  own 
family)  for  the  sake  of  a  single  person,  who  is  not  very  likely  in  a 
condition  even  to  understand  the  religious  message  whereof  the 
priest  is  the  bringer — being  uneducated,  and  likewise  stupefied  or 
delirious  by  disease.  If  your  Ladyship  or  his  Lordship,  my  excel- 
lent good  friend  and  patron,  were  to  take  it " 

"God  forbid!"  cried  my  Lord. 

"Amen,"  continued  Dr.  Tusher.  "Amen  to  that  prayer,  my 
very  good  Lord!  for  your  sake  I  would  lay  my  life  down"— and,  to 
judge  from  the  alarmed  look  of  the  Doctor's  purple  face,  you  would 
have  thought  that  that  sacrifice  was  about  to  be  called  for  instantly. 

To  love  children,  and  be  gentle  with  them,  was  an  instinct, 
rather  than  a  merit,  in  Henry  Esmond ;  so  much  so,  that  he  thought 
almost  with  a  sort  of  shame  of  his  liking  for  them,  and  of  the 
softness  into  which  it  betrayed  him ;  and  on  this  day  the  poor  fel- 
low had  not  only  had  his  young  friend,  the  milkmaid's  brother,  on 
his  knee,  but  had  been  drawing  pictures  and  telling  stories  to  the 
little  Frank  Castlewood,  who  had  occupied  the  same  place  for  an 
hour  after  dinner,  and  was  never  tired  of  Henry's  tales,  and  his 
pictures  of  soldiers  and  horses.  As  luck  would  have  it,  Beatrix  had 
not  on  that  evening  taken  her  usual  place,  which  generally  she  was 
^^lad  enough  to  have,  upon  her  tutor's  lap.  For  Beatrix,  from  the 
earliest  time,  was  jealous  of  every  caress  which  was  given  to  her 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  115 

little  brother  Frank.  She  would  fling  away  even  from  the  mater- 
nal arms,  if  she  saw  Frank  had  been  there  before  her ;  insomuch 
that  Lady  Esmond  was  obliged  not  to  show  her  love  for  her  son  in  V 
the  presence  of  the  little  girl,  and  embrace  one  or  the  other  alone. 
She  would  turn  pale  and  red  with  rage  if  she  caught  signs  of  intel- 
ligence or  affection  between  Frank  and  his  mother;  would  sit  apart, 
and  not  speak  for  a  whole  night,  if  she  thought  the  boy  had  a 
better  fruit  or  a  larger  cake  than  hers ;  would  fling  away  a  riband 
if  he  had  one ;  and  from  the  earliest  age,  sitting  up  in  her  little 
chair  by  the  great  fireplace  opposite  to  the  corner  where  Lady 
Castlev*' ood  commonly  sat  at  her  embroidery,  would  utter  infantine 
sarcasms  about  the  favour  shown  to  her  brother.  These,  if  spoken 
in  the  presence  of  Lord  Castlewood,  tickled  and  amused  his 
humour;  he  would  pretend  to  love  Frank  best,  and  dandle  and  kiss 
him,  a^d  roar  with  laughter  at  Beatrix's  jealousy.  But  the  truth 
is,  my  Lord  did  not  often  witness  these  scenes,  nor  very  much 
trouble  the  quiet  fireside  at  which  his  lady  passed  many  long  even- 
ings. My  Lord  was  hunting  all  day  when  the  season  admitted;  he 
frequented  all  the  cock-fights  and  fairs  in  the  country,  and  would 
ride  twenty  miles  to  see  a  main  fought,  or  two  clowns  break  their 
heads  at  a  cudgelling  match;  and  he  liked  better  to  sit  in  his  par- 
lour drinking  ale  and  punch  with  Jack  and  Tom,  than  in  his  wife's 
drawing-room:  whither,  if  he  came,  he  brought  only  too  often 
bloodshot  eyes,  a  hiccupping  voice,  and  a  reeling  gait.  The  man- 
agement of  the  house,  and  the  property,  the  care  of  the  few 
tenants  and  the  village  poor,  and  the  accounts  of  the  estate,  were 
in  the  hands  of  his  lady  and  her  young  secretary,  Harry  Esmond. 
My  Lord  took  charge  of  the  stables,  the  kennel,  and  the  cellar — 
and  he  filled  this,  and  emptied  it  too. 

So  it  chanced  that  upon  this  very  day,  when  poor  Harry  Esmond 
had  had  the  blacksmith's  son,  and  the  peer's  son,  alike  upon  his  knee, 
little  Beatrix,  who  would  come  to  her  tutor  willingly  enough  with 
her  book  and  her  writing,  had  refused  him,  seeing  the  place  occu- 
pied by  her  brother,  and,  luckily  for  her,  had  sat  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  room,  away  from  him,  playmg  with  a  spaniel  dog  which  she 


116  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

had  (and  for  which,  by  fits  and  starts,  she  would  take  a  great  affec- 
tion), and  talking  at  Harry  Esmond  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  pre- 
tended to  caress  the  dog,  saying  that  Fido  would  love  her,  and  she 
would  love  Fido,  and  nothing  but  Fido,  all  her  life. 

When,  then,  the  news  was  brought  that  the  little  boy  at  the 
"Three  Castles"  was  ill  with  the  smallpox,  poor  Harry  Esmond  felt 
a  shock  of  alarm,  not  so  much  for  himself  as  for  his  mistress's  son, 
whom  he  might  have  brought  into  peril.  Beatrix,  who  had  pouted 
sufficiently  (and  who,  whenever  a  stranger  appeared,  began,  from 
infancy  almost,  to  play  off  little  graces  to  catch  his  attention),  her 
brother  being  now  gone  to  bed,  was  for  taking  her  place  upon 
Esmond's  knee:  for,  though  the  Doctor  was  very  obsequious  to  her, 
she  did  not  like  him,  because  he  had  thick  boots  and  dirty  hands 
(the  pert  young  miss  said),  and  because  she  hated  learning  the 
Catechism. 

But  as  she  advanced  towards  Esmond  from  the  corner  where  she 
had  been  sulking,  he  started  back  and  placed  the  great  chair  on 
which  he  was  sitting  between  him  and  her — saying  in  the  French 
language  to  Lady  Castlewood,  with  whom  the  young  lad  had  read 
much,  and  whom  he  had  perfected  in  this  tongue — "Madam,  the 
child  must  not  approach  me ;  I  must  tell  you  that  I  was  at  the 
blacksmith's  to-day,  and  had  his  little  boy  upon  my  lap." 

"Wliere  you  took  my  son  afterwards,"  Lady  Castlewood  said, 
very  angry,  and  turning  red.  "I  thank  you,  sir,  for  giving  him 
such  company.  Beatrix,"  she  said  in  English,  "I  forbid  you  to 
touch  Mr.  Esmond.  Come  away,  child — come  to  your  room.  Come 
to  your  room — I  wish  your  Reverence  good-night — and  you,  sir,  had 
you  not  better  go  back  to  your  friends  at  the  alehouse?"  Her  eyes, 
ordinarily  so  kind,  darted  flashes  of  anger  as  she  spoke;  and  she 
tossed  up  her  head  (which  hung  down  commonly)  with  the  mien  of 
a  princess. 

"Heyday!"  says  my  Lord,  who  was  standing  by  the  fireplace — 
indeed  he  was  in  the  position  to  which  he  generally  came  by  that 
hour  of  the  evening — "Heyday!  Rachel,  what  are  you  in  a  passion 
about?    Ladies  ought  never  to  be  in  a  passion — ought  they,  Doctor 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  117 

Tusher? — though  it  does  good  to  see  Rachel  in  a  passion.     Damme, 
Lady  Castlewood,  you  look  dev'lish  handsome  in  a  passion." 

"It  is,  my  Lord,  because  Mr.  Henry  Esmond,  having  nothing  to 
do  with  his  time  here,  and  not  having  a  taste  for  our  company,  has 
been  to  the  alehouse,  where  he  has  some  friends.'^ 

My  Lord  burst  out,  with  a  laugh  and  an  oath:  "You  young  sly- 
boots,   you've    been    at    Nancy  Sievewright.      D the    young 

hypocrite,   who'd   have   thought  it  in  him?     I  say,   Tusher,   he's 
been  after " 

"Enough,  my  Lord,"  said  mj-  Lady;  "don't  insult  me  with  this 
talk." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  poor  Harry,  ready  to  cry  with  shame  and 
mortification,  "the  honour  of  that  young  person  is  perfectly 
unstained  for  me. ' ' 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course,"  says  my  Lord,  more  and  more  laugh- 
ing and  tipsy.     "Upon  his  honour.  Doctor — Nancy  Sieve " 

"Take  Mistress  Beatrix  to  bed,"  my  Lady  cried  at  this  moment 
to  Mrs.  Tucker  her  woman,  who  came  in  with  her  Ladyship's  tea. 
"Put  her  into  my  room — no,  into  yours,"  she  added  quickly.  "Go, 
my  child:  go,  I  say:  not  a  word!"  And  Beatrix,  quite  surprised  at 
so  sudden  a  tone  of  authority  from  one  who  was  seldom  accus- 
tomed to  raise  her  voice,  went  out  of  the  room  with  a  scared  coun- 
tenance, and  waited  even  to  burst  out  a-crying  until  she  got  to  the 
door  with  Mrs.  Tucker. 

For  once  her  mother  took  little  heed  of  her  sobbing,  and  con- 
tinued to  speak  eagerly — "My  Lord,"  she  said,  "this  young  man — 
your  dependant — told  me  just  now  in  French — he  was  ashamed  to 
speak  in  his  own  language — that  he  had  been  at  the  alehouse  ail 
daj',  where  he  has  had  that  little  wretch  who  is  now  ill  of  the 
smallpox  on  his  knee.  And  he  comes  home  reeking  from  that 
place — yes,  reeking  from  it — and  takes  my  boy  into  his  lap  without 
sliame,  and  sits  down  by  me,  yes,  by  me.  He  may  have  killed 
Frank  for  wliat  I  know — killed  our  child.  Why  was  he  brought  in 
to  disgrace  our  house?  Why  is  he  here?  Let  him  go — let  him  go 
I  say,  to-night,  and  pollute  the  place  no  more." 


118  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

She  had  never  once  uttered  a  sj'llable  of  unkindness  to  Harry 
Esmond ;  and  her  cruel  words  smote  the  poor  boy,  so  that  he  stood 
for  some  moments  bewildered  with  grief  and  rage  at  the  injustice 
of  such  a  stab  from  such  a  hand.  He  turned  quite  white  from  red, 
v/hich  he  had  been. 

"I  cannot  help  my  birth,  madam,"  he  said,  "nor  my  other  mis- 
fortune. And  as  for  your  boy,  if — if  my  coming  nigh  to  hira 
pollutes  him  now,  it  was  not  so  always.  Good-night,  my  Lord. 
Heaven  bless  you  and  yours  for  your  goodness  to  me.  I  have  tired 
her  Ladyship's  kindness  out,  and  I  wnll  go;"  and,  sinking  down  on 
his  knee,  Harry  Esmond  took  the  rough  hand  of  his  benefactor  and 
kissed  it. 

"He  wants  to  go  to  the  alehouse — let  him  go,"  cried  my  Lady. 

"I"m  d d  if  he  shall,"  said  my  Lord.     "I  didn't  think  you 

could  be  so  d d  ungrateful,  Rachel." 

Her  reply  was  to  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  to  quit  the  room 
with  a  rapid  glance  at  Harry  Esmond, — as  my  Lord,  not  heeding 
them,  and  still  in  great  good-humour,  raised  up  his  young  client 
from  his  kneeling  posture  (for  a  thousand  kindnesses  had  caused 
the  lad  to  revere  my  Lord  as  a  father),  and  put  his  broad  hand  on 
Harry  Esmond's  shoulder. 

"She  was  always  so,"  my  Lord  said;  "the  very  notion  of  a 
woman  drives  her  mad.  I  took  to  liquor  on  that  very  account,  by 
Jove,  for  no  other  reason  than  that ;  for  she  can't  be  jealous  of  a 

beer-barrel  or  a  bottle  of  rum,  can  she,  Doctor?     D it,  look  at 

the  maids — just  look  at  the  maids  in  the  house"  (my  Lord  pro- 
nounced all  the  words  together — just-look-at-the-maze-in-the-house: 
jever-see-such-maze?).  "You  wouldn't  take  a  wife  out  of  Castle- 
wood  now,  would  you.  Doctor?"  and  my  Lord  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. 

The  Doctor,  who  had  been  looking  at  my  Lord  Castlewood  from 
under  his  eyelids,  said,  "But  joking  apart,  and,  my  Lord,  as  a 
divine,  I  cannot  treat  the  subject  in  a  jocular  light,  nor,  as  a 
pastor  of  this  congregation,  look  with  anything  but  sorrow  at  the 
idea  of  so  very  young  a  sheep  going  astray."' 


THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  119 

"Sir,''  said  young  Esmond,  bursting  out  indignantly,  "she  told 
me  that  you  yourself  were  a  horrid  old  man,  and  had  offered  to  kiss 
her  in  the  dairy." 

"For  shame,  Henry,*"  cried  Doctor  Tusher,  turning  as  red  as  a 
turkey-cock,  while  my  Lord  continued  to  roar  with  laughter.  "If 
you  listen  to  the  falsehoods  of  an  abandoned  girl " 

"She  is  as  honest  as  any  woman  in  England,  and  as  pure  for 
me,"  cried  out  Henry,  "and  as  kind,  and  as  good.  For  shame  on 
j'ou  to  malign  her  I'' 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  do  so,"  cried  the  Doctor.  "Heaven  grant 
I  may  be  mistaken  in  the  girl,  and  in  you,  sir,  who  have  a  truly  pre- 
cocioiis  geniu>i;  but  that  is  not  the  point  a,t  issue  at  present.  It 
appears  that  the  smallpox  broke  out  in  the  little  boy  at  the  'Three 
Castles' ;  that  it  was  on  him  when  you  visited  the  alehouse,  for 
your  own  reasons;  and  that  you  sat  with  the  child  for  some  time, 
and  immediately  afterwards  with  my  j'oung  Lord."  The  Doctor 
raised  his  voice  as  he  spoke,  and  looked  towards  my  Lady,  who  had 
now  come  back,  looking  very  pale,  with  a  handkerchief  in  her 
hand. 

'This  is  all  very  true,  sir,"  said  Lady  Esmond,  looking  at  the 
3-oung  man. 

"  'Tis  to  be  feared  that  he  ma}'  have  brought  the  infection  with 
him." 

"From  the  alehouse — yes,"  said  my  Lad}'. 

"D it,  I  forgot  when  I  collared  you,  boy,"  cried  my  Lord, 

stepping  back.     "Keep  off,  Harry  my  boy;  there's  no  good  in  run- 
ning into  the  wolf's  jaws,  you  know.'' 

My   Lady   looked   at    him   with   some   surprise,    and    instantly 
advancing  to  Henry  Esmond,  took  his  hand.     'T  beg  your  pardon, 
^^B||>-,"   she   said;  "I   spoke  very  unkindly.     I  have  no  right  to 
jHJPrlere  with  you — with  your " 

My  Lord  broke  out  into  an  oath.  "Can't  you  leave  the  boy 
alone,  my  Lady?''  She  looked  a  little  red,  and  faintly  pressed  the 
lad's  hand  as  she  dropped  it. 

"There  is  no  use,  my  Lord,"  she  said;  "Frank  was  on  his  knee 


1^0  THE  PIISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

as  he  was  making  pictures,  and -was  running  constantly  from  Henry 
to  me.     The  evil  is  done,  if  any," 

"Not  with  me,  damme,"  cried  my  Lord.  "I've  been  smoking," 
— and  he  lighted  his  pipe  again  with  a  coal — "and  it  keeps  off 
infection;  and  as  the  disease  is  in  the  village — plague  take  it  I — I 
would  have  you  leave  it.  We'll  go  to-morrow  to  Walcote,  jny 
Lady." 

"I  have  no  fear,"  said  my  Lady;  "I  may  have  had  it  as  an 
infant:  it  broke  out  in  our  house  tlien;  and  when  four  of  my  sisters 
had  it  at  home,  two  years  before  our  marriage,  I  escaped  it,  and 
two  of  my  dear  sisters  died." 

"I  won't  run  the  risk,"  said  my  Lord;  "I'm  as  bold  as  any  man, 
but  I'll  not  bear  that." 

"Take  Beatrix  with  you  and  go,"  said  my  Lad3\  "For  us  the 
mischief  is  done ;  and  Tucker  can  vrait  upon  us,  who  has  had  the 
disease." 

"You  take  care  to  choose  'em  ugly  enough,"  said  my  Lord,  at 
which  her  Ladyship  hung  down  her  head  and  looked  foolish :  and 
m,y  Lord,  calling  away  Tusher,  bade  him  come  to  the  oak  parlour 
and  have  a  pipe.  The  Doctor  made  a  low  bow  to  her  Ladyship  (of 
which  salaams  he  vras  profuse),  and  walked  oH'  on  his  creaking 
square-toes  after  his  patron. 

When  the  lady  and  the  young  man  were  alone,  there  was  a 
silence  of  some  moments,  during  which  he  stood  at  the  fire,  looking 
rather  vacantly  at  the  dying  embers,  whilst  her  Ladj'ship  busied 
herself  with  the  tambour-frame  and  needles. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  after  a  panse,  in  a  hard,  dry  voice, — "1 
repeat  I  am  sorry  that  I  showed  myself  so  ungrateful  for  the  safety 
of  my  son.  It  was  not  at  all  my  wish  that  you  should  leave  n?*,  I 
am  sure,  unless  you  found  pleasure  elsewhere.  But  you  must 
perceive,  Mr.  Esmond,  that  at  jour  age,  and  with  your  tastes,  it  is 
impossible  that  you  can  continue  to  stay  upon  the  intimate  footing 
in  which  you  have  been  in  this  family.  You  have  wished  to  go  to 
the  University,  and  I  think  'tis  quite  as  well  that  you  should  be 
sent  thither.     I  did  not  press  this  matter,  thinking  you  a  child,  as 


I 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  121 

you  are,  indeed,  in  years — quite  a  child ;  and  I  should  never  have 
thouglit  of  treating  you  otherwise  until — until  these  circumstances 
came  to  light.  And  I  shall  beg  my  Lord  to  despatch  you  as  quick 
as  possible:  and  will  go  on  with  Frank's  learning  as  well  as  I  can 
(I  owe  my  father  thanks  for  a  little  grounding,  and  you,  I'm  sure, 
for  much  that  you  have  taught  me), — and — and  I  wish  you  a  good- 
night, Mr.  Esmond.'' 

And  with  this  she  dropped  a  stately  curtsey,  and,  taking  her 
candle,  went  away  through  the  tapestry  door,  which  led  to  her 
apartments.  Esmond  stood  by  the  fireplace,  blankly  staring  after 
her.  Indeed,  he  scarce  seemed  to  see  until  she  was  gone;  and  then 
her  image  was  impressed  upon  him,  and  remained  for  ever  fixed 
upon  his  memory.  He  saw  her  retreating,  the  taper  lighting  up 
her  marble  face,  her  scarlet  lip  quivering,  and  her  shining  golden 
hair.  He  went  to  his  own  room,  and  to  bed,  where  he  tried  to- 
read,  as  his  custom  was ;  but  he  never  knew  what  he  was  reading 
until  afterwards  he  remembered  the  appearance  of  the  letters  of 
the  book  (it  was  in  Montaigne's  Essays),  and  the  events  of  the  day 
passed  before  him — that  is,  of  the  last  hour  of  the  day ;  for  as  for 
the  morning,  and  the  poor  milkmaid  yonder,  he  never  so  much  as 
once  thought.  And  he  could  not  get  to  sleep  until  daylight,  and 
woke  wath  a  violent  headache,  and  quite  unrefreshed. 

He  had  brought  the  contagion  with  him  from  the  "Three  Castles'* 
sure  enough,  and  was  presently  laid  up  with  the  smallpox,  whic  h 
spared  the  hall  no  more  than  it  did  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER  IX 

I    HAVE  THE   SMALLPOX,    AND   PREPARE   TO   LEAVE  CASTLEWOOD 

When  Harry  Esmond  passed  through  the  crisis  of  that  malady, 
and  returned  to  health  again,  he  found  that  little  Frank  Esmond 
had  also  suffered  and  rallied  after  the  disease,  and  the  lady  his 
mother  was  down  with  it,  with  a  couple  more  of  the  household. 
"It  was  a  Providence,  for  which  we  all  ought  to  be  thankful,"  Doc- 
tor Tusher  said,  "that  my  Lady  and  her  son  were  spared,  while 
Death  carried  off  the  poor  domestics  of  the  house;"  and  rebuked 
Harry  for  asking,  in  his  simple  way.  For  which  we  ought  to  be 
thankful — that  the  servants  were  killed,  or  the  gentlefolks  were 
saved?  Nor  could  young  Esmond  agree  in  the  Doctor's  vehement 
protestations  to  my  Lady,  when  he  visited  her  during  her  conval- 
escence, that  the  malady  had  not  in  the  least  impaired  her  charms, 
and  had  not  been  churl  enough  to  injure  the  fair  features  of  the 
Viscountess  of  Castlewood ;  whereas,  in  spite  of  these  fine  speeches, 
Harry  thought  that  her  Ladyship's  beauty  was  very  much  injured 
by  the  smallpox.  When  the  marks  of  the  disease  cleared  away, 
they  did  not,  it  is  true,  leave  furrows  or  scars  on  her  face  (except 
one,  perhaps,  on  her  forehead  over,  her  left  eyebrow) ;  but  the  deli- 
cacy of  her  rosy  colour  and  complexion  was  gone:  her  eyes  had  lost 
their  brilliancy,  her  hair  fell,  and  her  face  looked  older.  It  was  as 
if  a  coarse  hand  had  rubbed  off  the  delicate  tints  of  that  sweet 
picture,  and  brought  it,  as  one  has  seen  unskilful  iminting-cleaners 
do,  to  the  dead  colour.  Also,  it  must  be  owned,  that  for  a  year  or 
two  after  the  malady,  her  Ladyship's  nose  was  swollen  and  redder. 

There  would  be  no  need  to  mention  these  trivialities,  but  that  they 
actually  influenced  many  lives,  as  trifles  will  in  the  world,  where 
a  gnat  often  plays  a  greater  part  than  an  elephant,  and  a  molehill, 

122 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  123 

as  we  know  in  King  William's  case,  can  upset  an  empire.  When 
Tuslier  in  his  courtly  way  (at  which  Harry  Esmond  alvva5'^s  chafed 
and  spoke  scornfully)  vowed  and  protested  that  my  Lady's  face  was 
none  the  worse — the  lad  broke  out  and  said,  "It  is  worse:  and  my 
mistress  is  not  near  so  handsome  as  she  was;"  on  which  poor  Lady 
Castlewood  gave  a  rueful  smile,  and  a  look  into  a  little  Venice  glass 
she  had,  which  showed  her,  I  suppose,  that  what  the  stupid  boy 
said  was  only  too  true,  for  she  turned  away  from  the  glass,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

The  sight  of  these  in  Esmond's  heart  always  created  a  sort  of 
rage  of  pity,  and  seeing  them  on  the  face  of  the  lady  whom  he 
loved  best,  the  young  blunderer  sank  down  on  his  knees,  and 
besought  her  to  pardon  him,  saj'ing  that  he  was  a  fool  and  an  idiot, 
that  he  was  a  brute  to  make  such  a  speech,  he  who  had  caused  her 
malady ;  and  Doctor  Tusher  told  him  that  a  bear  he  was  indeed, 
and  a  bear  he  would  remain,  at  which  speech  poor  young  Esmond 
was  so  dumb-stricken  that  he  did  not  even  growl. 

"He  is  m?/ bear,  and  I  will  not  have  him  baited.  Doctor,"  my 
Lady  said,  patting  her  hand  kindly  on  the  boy's  head,  as  he  was 
still  kneeling  at  her  feet.  "How  your  hair  has  come  off!  And 
mine,  too,"  she  added  with  another  sigh. 

"It  is  not  for  myself  that  I  cared,"  my  Lady  said  to  Harry, 
when  the  parson  had  taken  his  leave;  "but  am  I  very  much 
changed?    Alas!  I  fear  'tis  too  true." 

"Madam,  you  have  the  dearest,  and  kindest,  and  sweetesr  face  in 
the  world,  I  think,"  the  lad  said;  and  indeed  he  thought  and 
thinks  so. 

"Will  my  Lord  think  so  when  he  comes  back?"  the  lady  asked 
with  a  sigh,  and  another  look  at  her  Venice  glass.  "Suppose  he 
should  think  as  you  do,  sir,  that  I  am  hideous — yes,  you  said  hid- 
eous— he  will  cease  to  care  for  me.  'Tis  all  men  care  for  in  women, 
our  little  beauty.  Why  did  he  select  me  from  among  my  sisters? 
'Twas  only  for  that.  We  reign  but  for  a  day  or  two:  and  be  sure 
that  Vashti  knew  Esther  was  coming." 

"Madam,"   said  Mr.  Esmond,  "Ahasuerus  was  the  Grand  Turk 


124  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

and  to  change  was  the  manner  of  his  country,  and  according  to  his 
law." 

"You  are  all  Grand  Turks  for  that  matter,"  said  my  Lady,  "or 
would  be  if  you  could.  Come,  Frank,  come,  my  child.  You  are 
well,  praised  be  Heaven.  Your  locks  are  not  thinned  by  this  dread- 
ful smallpox:  nor  your  poor  face  scarred — is  it,  my  angel?" 

Frank  began  to  shout  and  whimper  at  the  idea  of  such  a  misfor- 
tune. From  the  very  earliest  time  the  young  Lord  had  been  taught 
to  admire  his  beauty  by  his  mother:  and  esteemed  it  as  highly  as 
any  reigning  toast  valued  hers. 

One  day,  as  he  himself  was  recovering  from  his  fever  and 
illness,  a  pang  of  something  like  shame  shot  across  young  Esmond's 
breast,  as  he  remembered  that  he  had  never  once  during  his  illness 
given  a  thought  to  the  poor  girl  at  the  smithy, whose  red  cheeks  but 
a  month  ago  he  had  been  so  eager  to  see.  Poor  Nancy !  her  cheeks 
had  shared  the  fate  of  roses,  and  were  withered  now.  She  had 
taken  the  illness  on  the  same  day  wath  Esmond — she  and  her 
brother  were  both  dead  of  the  smallpox,  and  buried  under  the 
Castlewood  yew-trees.  There  was  no  bright  face  looking  now  from 
the  garden,  or  to  cheer  the  old  smith  at  his  lonely  fireside.  Esmond 
would  liave  liked  to  have  kissed  her  in  her  shroud  (like  the  lass 
in  Mr.  Prior's  pretty  poem) ;  but  she  rested  many  a  foot  below  the 
ground,  when  Esmond  after  his  malady  first  trod  on  it. 

Doctor  Tusher  brought  the  news  of  this  calamity,  about  which 
Harry  Esmond  longed  to  ask,  but  did  not  like.  He  said  almost  the 
whole  village  had  been  stricken  with  the  pestilence;  seventeen  per- 
sons were  dead  of  it,  among  them  mentioning  the  names  of  poor 
Nancy  and  her  little  brother.  He  did  not  fail  to  say  liow  thankful 
we  survivors  ought  to  be.  It  being  this  man's  business  to  flatter 
and  make  sermons,  it  must  be  owned  he  was  most  industrious  in  it, 
and  was  doing  the  one  or  the  other  all  day. 

And  so  Nancy  was  gone ;  and  Harry  Esmond  blushed  that  he 
had  not  a  single  tear  for  her,  and  fell  to  composing  an  elegy  in 
Latin  verses  over  the  rustic  little  beauty.  He  bade  the  dryads 
mourn  and  the  river-nymphs  deplore  her.     As  her  father  followed 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  135 

the  calling  of  Vulcan,  he  said  that  surely  she  was  like  a  daughter 
of  Venus,  though  Sievewright's  wife  was  an  ugly  shrew,   as  he 
remembered  to  have  heard  afterwards.     He  made  a  long  face,  but, 
in  truth,  felt  scarcely  more  sorrowful  than  a  mute  at  a  funeral. 
These  first  passions  of  men- and  women  are  mostly  abortive ;  and 
are  dead  almost  before  they  are  born.     Esmond  could  repeat,  to  his 
last  day.  some  of  the  doggerel  lines  in  which  his  muse  bewailed  his 
pretty  lass ;  not  without  shame  to  remember  hov/  bad  the  verses 
were,  and  how  good  he  thought  them ;  how  false  the  grief,  and  yet  / 
how  he  was  rather  proud  of  it.     'Tis  an  error,  surely,  to  talk  of  thej 
simplicity  of  youth.     I  think  no  persons  are  more  hypocritical,  andi 
have  a  more  affected  behaviour  to  one  another,  than  the  young. '; 
They  deceive  themselves  and  each  other  with  artifices  that  do  not ' 
impose  upon  men  of  the  world ;  and  so  we  get  to  understand  truth 
better,  and  grow  simpler  as  we  grow  older. 

When  my  Lady  heard  of  the  fate  which  had  befallen  poor 
Nancy,  she  said  nothing  so  long  as  Tusher  was  by,  but  when  he  was 
gone,  she  took  Harry  Esmond's  hand  and  said — 

"Harry,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  those  cruel  words  I  used  on  the 
night  you  were  taken  ill.  I  am  shocked  at  the  fate  of  the  poor 
creature,  and  am  sure  that  nothing  had  happened  of  that  with 
which,  in  my  anger,  I  charged  you.  And  the  very  first  day  we 
go  out,  you  must  take  me  to  the  blacksmith,  and  we  must  see  if 
there  is  anything  I  can  do  to  console  the  poor  old  man.  Poor  man ! 
to  lose  both  his  children!     What  should  I  do  without  mine?" 

And  this  was,  indeed,  the  very  first  walk  which  my  Lady  took, 
leaning  on  Esmond's  arm,  after  her  illness.  But  her  visit  brought 
no  consolation  to  the  old  father ;  and  he  showed  no  softness,  or  desire 
to  speak.  "The  Lord  gave  and  took  away,"  he  said;  and  he  knew 
what  His  servant's  duty  was.  He  wanted  for  nothing — less  now 
than  ever  before,  as  there  were  fewer  mouths  to  feed.  He  wished 
her  Ladyship  and  Master  Esmond  good-morning — he  had  grown  tall 
in  his  illness,  and  was  but  very  little  marked ;  and  with  this,  and  a 
surly  bow,  he  went  in  from  the  smithy  to  the  house,  leaving  my 
Lady,  somewhat  silenced  and  shamefaced,  at  the  door.     He  had  a 


126  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

handsome  stone  put  up  for  his  two  children,  which  may  be  seen  in 
Castlewood  churchyard  to  this  very  day;  and  before  a  year  was  out 
his  own  name  was  upon  the  stone.  In  the  presence  of  Death,  that 
sovereign  ruler,  a  woman's  coquetry  is  scared;  and  her  jealousy 
will  hardly  pass  the  boundaries  of  that  grim  kingdom.  'Tis 
entirely  of  the  earth  that  passion,  and  expires  in  the  cold  blue  air 
beyond  our  sphere. 

-Vt  length,  when  the  danger  was  quite  over,  it  was  announced 
that  niy  Lord  and  his  daughter  would  return.  Esmond  well  remem- 
bered the  day.  The  lady  his  mistress  was  in  a  flurry  of  fear :  before 
my  Lord  came,  she  went  into  her  room,  and  returned  from  it  v^•itll 
reddened  cheeks.  Her  fate  was  about  to  be  decided.  Her  beaut}' 
was  gone — was  her  reign,  too,  over?  A  minute  would  say.  My 
Lord  came  riding  over  the  bridge — he  could  be  seen  from  the  great 
window,  clad  in  scarlet,  and  mounted  on  his  grey  hackney — his 
little  daughter  ambled  by  him  in  a  bright  riding-dress  of  blue,  on  a 
shining  chestnut  horse.  My  Lady  leaned  against  the  great  mantel- 
piece, looking  on,  with  one  hand  on  her  heart — she  seemed  only  the 
more  pale  for  those  red  marks  on  either  cheek.  She  put  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes,  and  withdrew  it,  laughing  hysterically — the 
cloth  was  quite  red  with  the  rouge  when  she  took  it  away.  She 
ran  to  her  room  again,  and  came  back  with  pale  cheeks  and  red 
eyes — her  son  in  her  hand — just  as  my  Lord  entered,  accompanied 
by  young  Esmond,  who  had  gone  out  to  meet  his  protector,  and  to 
hold  his  stirrup  as  he  descended  from  horseback. 

"What,  Harry,  boy!"  my  Lord  said  good-naturedly,  "you  look 
as  gaunt  as  a  grej'hound.  The  smallpox  hasn't  improved  your 
beauty,  and  your  side  of  the  house  hadn't  never  too  much  of  it — 
ho,  ho!"' 

And  be  laughed,  and  sprang  to  the  ground  with  no  small  agility, 
looking  handsome  and  red,  with  a  jolly  face  and  brown  hair,  like  a 
Beefeater;  Esmond  kneeling  again,  as  soon  as  his  patron  had 
descended,  performed  his  homage,  and  then  went  to  greet  the  little 
Beatrix,  and  help  her  from  her  horse. 

"Fie!  how  yellow  you  look:"  she  said;  "and  there  are  one,  two, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  137 

red  holes  in  your  face;"  which,  indeed,  was  very  true;  Harry 
Esmond's  harsh  countenance  bearing,  as  long  as  it  continued  to  be 
•i  human  face,  the  marks  of  the  disease. 

My  Lord  laughed  again,  in  high  good-humour. 

"D it!"  said   he,   with  one  of  his  usual  oaths,   "the  little 

slut  sees  everything.  She  saw  the  Dowager's  paint  t'other  day, 
and  asked  her  wliy  she  wore  that  red  stuff — didn't  you,  Trix?  and 
the  Tower;  and  St.  James's;  and  the  play;  and  the  Prince  George, 
and  the  Princess  Anne — didn't  you,  Trix?'' 

"They  are  both  very  fat,  and  smelt  of  brandy,"  the  child  said. 

Papa  roared  with  laughing. 

"Brandy!"  he  said.     "And  how  do  you  know,  Miss  Pert?" 

"Because  your  Lordship  smells  of  it  after  supper,  when  I 
embrace  you  before  I  go  to  bed,"  said  the  young  lady,  who,  indeed, 
was  as  pert  as  her  father  said,  and  looked  as  beautiful  a  little  gipsy 
as  eyes  ever  gazed  on. 

"And  now  for  my  Lady,"  said  my  Lord,  going  up  the  stairs,  and 
passing  under  the  tapestry  curtain  that  hung  before  the  drawing- 
room  door.  Esmond  remembered  that  noble  figure,  handsomely 
arrayed  in  scarlet.  Within  the  last  few  months  he  himself  had 
grown  from  a  boy  to  be  a  man,  and  with  his  figure  his  thoughts 
had  shot  up  and  grown  manly. 

My  Lady's  countenance,  of  which  Harry  Esmond  was  accus- 
tomed to  watch  the  changes,  and  with  asolicitaiia-affection  to  note 
and  interpret  the  signs  of  gladness  or  care,  wore  a  sad  and 
depressed  look  for  many  weeks  after  her  Lord's  return:  during 
which  it  seemed  as  if,  by  caresses  and  entreaties,  she  strove  to  win 
him  back  from  some  ill-humour  he  had,  and  which  he  did  not 
choose  to  throw  off.  In  her  eagerness  to  please  him  she  practised 
a  hundred  of  those  arts  which  had  formerly  charmed  liim,  but 
which  seemed  now  to  have  lost  their  potency.  Her  songs  did  not 
amuse  him ;  and  she  huslied  them  and  the  children  when  in  his  pres- 
ence. My  Lord  sat  silent  at  his  dinner,  drinking  greatly,  his  lady 
opposite  to  him,  looking  furtively  at  his  face,  though  also  speech- 
less.    Her  silence  annoyed  him  as  much  as  her  speech;  and  he 


128  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

would  peevishl3^  and  with  an  oath,  ask  her  why  she  held  her 
tongue  and  looked  so  glum;  or  he  would  roughly  check  her  when 
speaking,  and  bid  her  not  talk  nonsense.  It  seemed  as  if,  since  his 
return,  nothing  she  could  do  or  say  could  please  him. 

When  a  master  and  mistress  are  at  strife  in  a  house,  the  subor- 
dinates in  the  family  take  the  one  side  or  the  other.  Harry  Esmond 
:stood  in  so  great  fear  of  my  Lord,  that  he  would  run  a  league  bare- 
foot to  do  a  message  for  him ;  but  his  attachment  for  Lady  Esmond 
was  such  a  passion  of  grateful  regard,  that  to  spare  her  a  grief,  or 
to  do  her  a  service,  he  would  have  given  his  life  daily:  and  it  was 
by  the  very  depth  and  intensity  of  this  regard  that  he  began  to 
divine  how  unhappy  his  adored  lady's  life  was,  and  that  a  secret 
care  (for  she  never  spoke  of  her  anxieties)  was  weighing  upon 
her. 

Can  any  one,  who  has  passed  through  the  world  and  watched 
tlie  nature  of  men  and  women  there,  doubt  what  had  befallen  her? 
I  have  seen,  to  be  sure,  some  people  carry  down  with  them  into  old 
age  the  actual  bloom  of  their  youthful  love,  and  I  know  that  Mr. 
Thomas  Parr  lived  to  be  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  old.  But,  for 
all  that,  threescore  and  ten  is  the  age  of  men,  and  few  get  beyond 
it;  and  'tis  certain  that  a  man  who  marries  for  mere  beaux  yeux,  as 
my  Lord  did,  considers  this  part  of  the  contract  at  an  end  when 
the  woman  ceases  to  fulfil  hers,  and  his  love  does  not  survive  her 
beauty.  I  know  'tis  often  otherwise,  I  say;  and  can  think  (as  most 
men  in  their  own  experience  may)  of  many  a  house,  where,  lighted 
in  early  years,  the  sainted  lamp  of  love  hath  never  been  extin- 
guished ;  but  so  there  is  Mr.  Parr,  and  so  there  is  the  great  giant  at 
the  fair  that  is  eight  feet  high — exceptions  to  men — and  that  poor 
lamp  whereof  I  speak,  that  lights  at  first  the  nuptial  chamber,  is 
extinguished  by  a  hundred  winds  and  draughts  down  the  chimney, 
or  sputters  out  for  want  of  feeding.  And  then — and  then  it  is 
Chloe.  in  the  dark,  stark  awake,  and  Strephon  snoring  unheeding: 
or  vice  versa, ''tis  poor  Strephon  that  has  married  a  heartless  jilt, 
land  awoke  out  of  that  absurd  vision  of  conjugal  felicity,  which 
was  to  last  for  ever,  and  is  over  like  any  other  dream.     One  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  139 

other  has  made  his  bed,  and  so  must  lie  in  it,  until  that  final  day 
when  life  ends,  and  they  sleep  separate. 

About  this  time  young  Esmond,  who  had  a  knack  of  stringing 
verses,  turned  some  of  Ovid's  Epistles  into  rhymes,  and  brought 
them  to  his  lady  for  her  delectation.  Those  which  treated  of  for- 
saken women  touclied  her  immensely,  Harry  remarked;  and  when 
Qinone  called  after  Paris,  and  Medea  bade  Jason  come  back  again, 
the  Lady  of  Castlewood  sighed,  and  said  she  thought  that  part 
of  the  verses  was  the  most  pleasing.  Indeed,  she  would  have 
chopped  up  the  Dean,  her  old  father,  in  order  to  bring  her  husband 
back  again.  But  her  beautiful  Jason  was  gone,  as  beautiful 
Jasons  will  go,  and  the  poor  enchantress  had  never  a  spell  to  keep 
him. 

My  Lord  was  only  sulky  as  long  as  his  wife's  anxious  face  or 
behaviour  seemed  to  upbraid  him.  When  she  had  got  to  master 
these,  and  to  show  an  outwardly  cheerful  countenance  and 
behaviour,  her  husband's  good-humour  returned  partially,  and  he 
swore  and  stormed  no  longer  at  dinner,  but  laughed  sometimes,  and 
yawned  unrestrainedly;  absenting  himself  often  from  home,  invit- 
ing more  company  thither,  passing  the  greater  part  of  his  days  in 
the  hunting  fiald,  or  over  the  bottle  as  before;  but  with  this  differ- 
ence, that  the  poor  wife  could  no  longer  see  now,  as  she  had  done 
formerly,  the  light  of  love  kindled  in  his  eyes.  He  was  w^ith  her, 
but  that  flame  was  out :  and  that  once  welcome  beacon  no  more 
shone  there. 

What  were  this  lady's  feelings  w^hen  forced  to  admit  the  truth 
whereof  her  foreboding  glass  had  given  her  only  too  true  warning, 
that  with  her  beauty  her  reign  had  ended,  and  the  days  of  her  love 
were  over?  What  does  a  seaman  do  in  a  storm  if  mast  and  rudder 
are  carried  away?  He  ships  a  jury  mast,  and  steers  as  he  best  can 
with  an  oar.  What  happens  if  your  roof  falls  in  a  tempest?  After 
the  first  stun  of  the  calamity  the  sufferer  starts  up,  gropes  around 
to  see  that  the  children  are  safe,  and  puts  them  under  a  shed  out  of 
the  rain.  If  the  palace  burns  down,  you  take  shelter  in  the  barn. 
What  man's  life  is  not  overtaken  by  one  or  more  of  these  tornadoes 


130  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

that  send  us  out  of  the  course,  and  fling  us  on  rocks  to  shelter  as 
best  we  may? 

When  Lady  Castlewood  found  that  her  great  ship  had  gone 
down,  she  began  as  best  she  might,  after  she  had  rallied  from  the 
effects  of  the  loss,  to  put  out  small  ventures  of  happiness ;  and  hope 
for  little  gains  and  returns,  as  a  merchant  on  'Change,  inclocilis 
pauperiem  pati,  having  lost  his  thousands,  embarks  a  few  guineas 
upon  the  next  ship.  She  laid  out  her  all  upon  her  children,  indulg- 
ing them  beyond  all  measure,  as  was  inevitable  with  one  of  her 
kindness  of  disposition ;  giving  all  her  thoughts  to  their  welfare — 
learning,  that  she  might  teach  them;  and  improving  her  own  many 
natural  gifts  and  feminine  accomplishments,  that  she  might  impart 
them  to  her  young  ones.  To  be  doing  good  for  some  one  else,  is  the 
life  of  most  good  women.  They  are  exuberant  of  kindness,  as  it 
were,  and  must  impart  it  to  some  one.  She  made  herself  a  good 
scholar  of  French,  Italian,  and  Latin,  having  been  grounded  in 
these  by  her  father  in  her  youth ;  hiding  these  gifts  from  her  hus- 
band out  of  fear,  perhaps,  that  they  should  offend  him,  for  my  Lord 
was  no  bookman — pish'd  and  psha'd  at  the  notion  of  learned  ladies, 
and  would  have  been  angry  that  his  wife  could  construe  out  of  a 
Latin  book  of  which  he  could  scarce  understand  two  words. 
Yqung  Esmond  was  usher,  or  house  tutor,  under  her  or  over  her,  as 
it  might  happen.  During  my  Lord's  many  absences,  these  school- 
days would  go  on  uninterruptedly :  the  mother  and  daughter  learn- 
ing with  surprising  quickness;  the  latter  by  fits  and  starts  only, 
and  as  suited  her  wayward  humour.  As  for  the  little  lord,  it  must 
be  owned  that  he  took  after  his  father  in  the  matter  of  learning — 
liked  marbles  and  play,  and  the  great  horse  and  the  little  one 
which  his  father  brought  him,  and  on  whicli  he  took  him  out 
a-hunting,  a  great  deal  better  than  Corderius  and  Lily;  marshalled 
the  village  boys,  and  had  a  little  court  of  them,  already  flogging 
them,  and  domineering  over  them  with  a  fine  imperious  spirit,  that 
made  his  father  laugh  when  he  beheld  it,  and  his  mother  fondly 
warn  him.  The  cook  had  a  son,  the  woodman  had  two,  the  big  lad 
at  the  porter's  lodge  took  his  cuffs  and  his  orders.     Doctor  Tusher 


J 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  131 

said  lie  was  a  young  nobleman  of  gallant  spirit;  and  Harry 
Esmond,  who  was  his  tutor,  and  ten  years  his  little  Lordship's 
senior,  had  hard  work  sometimes  to  keep  his  own  temper,  and  hold 
his  authorit}'  over  his  rebellious  little  chief  and  kinsman. 

In  a  couple  of  years  after  that  calamity  had  befallen  which  had 
robbed  Lady  Castlewood  of  a  little— a  veryJUttle — of  her  beauty, 
and  of  her  careless  husband's  heart  (if  the  truth  must  be  told,  my 
Lady  had  found  not  only  that  her  reign  was  over,  but  that  her 
successor  was  appointed,  a  Princess  of  a  noble  house  in  Drury 
Lane  somewhere,  who  was  installed  and  visited  by  my  Lord  at  the 
town  eight  miles  oS—jnidet  hcec  opprohria  dicere  nobis)— a  great 
change  had  taken  place  in  her  mind,  which,  by  struggles  qnly 
known  to  herself,  at  least  never  mentioned  to  any  one,  and  unsus- 
pected by  the  person  who  caused  the  pain  she  endured — had  been 
schooled  into  such  a  condition  as  she  could  not  very  likely  have 
imagined  possible  a  score  of  months  since,  before  her  misfortunes 
had  begun. 

She  had  oldened  in  that  time  as  people  do  who  suffer  silently 
great  mental  pain ;  and  learned  much  that  she  had  never  suspected 
before.  She  was  taught  by  that  bitter  teacher  Misfortune.  A  child 
the  mother  of  other  children,  but  two  years  back  her  lord  was  a 
god  to  her;  his  words  her  law;  his  smile  her  sunshine;  his  lazy  com- 
monplaces listened  to  eagerly,  as  if  they  were  _words  of  wisdom — 
all  his  wishes  and  freaks  obeyed  with  a  servile  devotion.  She  had 
been  my  Lord's  chief  slave  and  blind  worshipper.  Some  women 
bear  further  than  this,  and  submit  not  only  to  neglect  but  to 
unfaithfulness  too — but  here  this  lady's  allegiance  had  failed  her. 
Her  spirit^  rebelled,  and  disowned  any  more  obedience.  First  she 
had  to  bear  in  secret  the  passion  of  losing  the  adored  object;  then  to 
get  a  f  uHher  initiation,  and  to  find  this  worshipped  being  was  but 
a  clumsy  idol:  then  to  admit  the  silent  truth,  that  it  was  she  was 
superior,  and  not  the  monarch  her  master:  that  she  had  thoughts 
which  his  brains  could  never  master,  and  was  the  better  of  the 
two ;  quite  separate  from  my  Lord  although  tied  to  him,  and  bound, 
as  almost  all  people  (save  a  very  happy  few),  to  work  all  her  life 


133  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

alone.  My  Lord  sat  in  his  chair,  laughing  his  laugh,  cracking  his  joke, 
his  face  flushing  with  wine— my  Lady  in  her  place  over  against 
him— he  never  suspecting  that  his  superior  was  there,  in  the  calm 
resigned  lady,  cold  of  manner,  with  downcast  eyes.  When  he  was 
merry  in  his  cups,  he  would  make  jokes  about  her  coldness,  and 

"D it,  now  my  Lady  is  gone,  we  will  have  t'other  bottle,"  he 

would  say.  He  was  frank  enough  in  telling  his  thoughts,  such  as 
they  were.  There  was  little  mystery  about  my  Lord's  words  or 
actions.  His  Fair  Rosamond  did  not  live  in  a  Labyrinth,  like  the 
lady  of  Mr.  Addison's  opera,  but  paraded  with  painted  cheeks  and 
a  tipsy  retinue  in  the  country  town.  Had  she  a  mind  to  be 
revenged.  Lady  Castlewood  could  have  found  the  way  to  her  rival's 
house  easily  enough ;  and,  if  she  had  come  with  bowl  and  dagger, 
would  have  been  routed  off  the  ground  by  the  enemy  with  a  volley 
of  Billingsgate,  which  the  fair  person  always  kept  by  her. 

Meanwhile,  it  has  been  said,  that  for  Harry  Esmond  his  bene- 
factress' sweet  face  had  lost  none  of  its  charms.    It  had  always  the 
kindest  of  looks  and  smiles  for  him— smiles,  not  so  gay  and  artless 
perhaps  as  those  which  Lady  Castlewood  had  formerly  worn,  when, 
a  child  herself,  playing  with  her  children,  her  husband's  pleasure 
and  authority  were  all  she  thought  of ;  but  out  of  her  griefs  and 
cares,  as  will  happen  I  think  when  these  trials  fall  upon  a  kindly 
heart,  and  are  not  too  unbearable,  grew  up  a  number  of  thoughts 
and  excellences  which  had  never  come  into  existence,  had  not  her 
sorrow  and  misfortunes  engendered  them.  -^-^SilEejjoccagi^nuis- 
father  of  most^that  is  good.iiLjj^.     As  you  have  seen  the  awkward 
/  fingers  and  clumsy  tools  of  a  prisoner  cut  and  fashion  the  most 
i  delicate  little  pieces  of  carved  work;  or  achieve  the  most  pro- 
I  digious  underground  labours,  and  cut  through  walls  of  masonry, 
j  and  saw  iron  bars  and  fetters;  'tis  misfortune  that  awakens  inge- 
|;  nuitv,  or  fortitude,  or  endurance,  in  hearts  where  these  qualities 
r  had  never  come  to  life  but  for  the  circumstance  which  gave  them 
a  being. 

"  'Twas  after  Jason  left  her,  no  doubt,"  Lady  Castlewood  once 
said  with  one  of  her  smiles  to  young  Esmond  (who  was  reading  to 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  133 

her  a  version  of  certain  lines  out  of  Euripides),  "that  Medea 
became  a  learned  woman  and  a  great  enchantress." 

"And  she  could  conjure  the  stars  out  of  heaven,"  the  young 
tutor  added,  "but  she  could  not  bring  Jason  back  again." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  my  Lady,  very  angry. 

"Indeed  I  mean  nothing,"  said  the  other,  "save  what  I've  read 
in  books.  What  should  I  know  about  such  matters?  I  have  seen 
no  woman  save  you  and  little  Beatrix,  and  the  parson's  wife  and 
my  late  mistress,  and  your  Ladyship's  woman  here." 

"The  men  who  wrote  your  books,"  says  my  Lady,  "your 
Horaces,  and  Ovids,  and  Virgils,  as  far  as  I  know  of  them,  all 
thought  ill  of  us,  as  all  the  heroes  thej'  wrote  about  used  us  basely. 
We  were  bred  to  be  slaves  always;  and  even  of  our  own  times,  as 
you  are  still  the  only  lawgivers,  I  think  our  sermons  seem  to  say 
tiiat  the  best  w^oman  is  she  who  bears  her  master's  chains  most 
gracefully.  'Tis  a  pity  there  are  no  nunneries  permitted  by  our 
Ciiurch:  Beatrix  and  I  would  fly  to  one,  and  end  our  days  in  peace 
there  away  from  you." 

"And  is  there  no  slavery  in  a  convent?"  says  Esmond. 

"At  least  if  women  are  slaves  there,  no  one  sees  them," 
answered  the  lady.  "They  don't  work  in  street  gangs  with  the 
public  to  jeer  them:  and  if  they  suffer,  suffer  in  private.  Here 
comes  my  Lord  home  from  hunting.  Take  away  the  books.  My 
Lord  does  not  love  to  see  them.  Lessons  are  over  for  to-day, 
Mr.  Tutor."  And  with  a  curtsey  and  a  smile  she  would  end  this 
sort  of  colloquy. 

Indeed  "Mr.  Tutor,"  as  my  Lady  called  Esmond,  had  now  busi- 
ness enough  on  his  hands  in  Castlewood  House.  He  had  three 
pupils,  his  lady  and  her  two  children,  at  whose  lessons  she  would 
always  be  present;  besides  writing  my  Lord's  letters,  and  arranging 
liis  accompts  for  him— when  these  could  be  got  from  Esmond's 
indolent  patron. 

Of  the  pupils  the  two  young  people  were  bat  lazy  scholars,  and 
as  my  Lady  would  admit  no  discipline  such  as  was  then  in  use,  my 
Lord's  son  only  learned  what  he  liked,  which  was  but  little,  and 


134  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

never  to  his  life's  end  could  be  got  to  construe  more  than  six  lines 
of  Virgil.  Mistress  Beatrix  chattered  French  prettily,  from  a  very 
early  age ;  and  sang  sweetly,  but  this  was  from  her  mother's  teaching 
—not  Harry  Esmond's,  who  could  scarce  distinguish  between  "Green 
Sleeves*'  and  "LillibuUero'' ;  although  he  had  no  greater  delight  in 
life  than  to  hear  the  ladies  sing.  He  sees  them  now  (will  he  ever 
forget  them?)  as  they  used  to  sit  together  of  the  summer  evenings 
— the  two  golden  heads  over  the  page — the  child's  little  hand  and 
the  mother's  beating  the  time,  with  their  voices  rising  and  falling 
in  unison. 

But  if  the  children  were  careless,  'twas  a  wonder  how^  eagerly 
the  mother  learnt  from  her  young  tutor — and  taught  him  too.  The 
happiest  instinctive  faculty  w^as  this  lady's — a  faculty  for  discern- 
ing latent  beauties  and  hidden  graces  of  books,  especially  books  of 
poetry,  as  in  a  walk  she  would  spy  out  field-flowers  and  make  posies 
of  them,  such  as  no  other  hand  could.  She  was  a  critic,  not  by 
reason  but  by  feeling ;  the  sweetest  commentator  of  those  books 
they  read  together;  and  the  happiest  hours  of  young  Esmond's  life, 
perhaps,  were  those  passed  in  the  company  of  this  kind  mistress 
and  her  children. 

These  happy  days  were  to  end  soon,  however;  and  it  was  by  the 
Lady  Castlewood's  own  decree  that  they  were  brought  to  a  conclu- 
sion. It  happened  about  Christmas-time,  Harry  Esmond  being  now 
past  sixteen  years  of  age,  that  his  old  comrade,  adversary,  and 
friend,  Tom  Tusher,  returned  from  his  school  in  London,  a  fair, 
well-grown,  and  sturdy  lad,  who  was  about  to  enter  college,  with 
an  exhibition  from  his  school,  and  a  prospect  of  after  promotion  in 
the  Church.  Tom  Tusher's  talk  was  of  nothing  but  Cambridge 
now ;  and  the  boys,  who  were  good  friends,  examined  each  other 
eagerly  about  their  progress  in  books.  Tom  had  learned  some  Greek 
and  Hebrew,  besides  Latin,  in  wdiich  he  was  pretty  well  skilled, 
and  also  had  given  himself  to  mathematical  studies  under  his 
father's  guidance,  who  was  a  proficient  in  those  sciences,  of  which 
Esmond  knew  nothing;  nor  could  he  write  Latin  so  well  as  Tom, 
though  he  could  talk  it  better,  having  been  taught  by  his  dear 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  135 

friend  the  Jesuit  Father,  for  whose  memory  the  lad  ever  retained  the 
warmest  affection,  reading  his  books,  keeping  his  swords  clean  in 
the  little  crypt  where  the  Father  had  shown  them  to  Esmond  on 
the  night  of  his  visit ;  and  often  of  a  night  sitting  in  the  chaplain's 
room,  which  he  inhabited,  over  his  books,  his  verses,  and  rubbish, 
with  which  the  lad  occupied  himself,  he  would  look  up  at  the  win- 
dow, thinking  he  wished  it  might  open  and  let  in  the  good  Father. 
He  had  come  and  passed  away  like  a  dream ;  but  for  the  swords 
and  books  Harry  might  almost  think  the  Father  was  an  imagination 
of  his  mind — and  for  two  letters  which  had  come  to  him,  one  from 
abroad  full  of  advice  and  affection,  another  soon  after  he  had  been 
confirmed  by  the  Bishop  of  Hexton,  in  which  Father  Holt  deplored 
his  falling  away.  But  Harry  Esmond  felt  so  confident  now  of  his 
being  in  the  right,  and  of  his  own  powers  as  a  casuist,  that  he 
thought  he  was  able  to  face  the  Father  himself  in  argument,  and 
possibly  convert  him. 

To  work  upon  the  faith  of  her  young  pupil,  Esmond's  kind  mis- 
tress sent  to  the  library  of  her  father  the  Dean,  who  had  been  dis- 
tinguished in  the  disputes  of  the  late  King's  reign;  and,  an  old 
soldier  now,  had  hung  up  his  weapons  of  controversy.  These  he 
took  down  from  his  shelves  willingly  for  young  Esmond,  whom  he 
benefited  by  his  own  personal  advice  and  instruction.  It  did  not 
require  much  persuasion  to  induce  the  boy  to  worship  with  his 
beloved  mistress.  And  the  good  old  nonjuring  Dean  flattered  him- 
self with  a  conversion  which,  in  truth,  was  owing  to  a  much 
gentler  and  fairer  persuader. 

Under  her  Ladyship's  kind  eyes  (my  Lord's  being  sealed  in  sleep 
pretty  generally)  Esmond  read  many  volumes  of  the  works  of  the 
famous  British  divines  of  the  last  age,  and  was  familiar  with  Wake 
and  Sherlock,  with  Stillingfleet  and  Patrick.  His  mistress  never 
tired  to  listen  or  to  read,  to  pursue  the  texts  with  fond  comments, 
to  urge  those  points  which  her  fancy  dwelt  on  most,  or  her  reason 
deemed  most  important.  Since  the  death  of  her  father  the  Dean, 
this  lady  had  admitted  a  certain  latitude  of  theological  reading 
which  her  orthodox  father  would  never  have  allowed;  his  favourite 


136  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

• 
writers  appealing  more  to  reason  and  antiquity  than  to  the  passions 

Or  imaginations  of  their  readers,  so  that  the  works  of  Bishop 
Taylor,  nay,  those  of  Mr.  Baxter  and  Mr.  Law,  have  in  reality 
found  more  favour  with  ray  Lady  Castlewood  than  the  severer  vol- 
umes of  our  great  English  schoolmen. 

In  later  life,  at  the  University,  Esmond  reopened  tlie  contro- 
versy, and  pursued  it  in  a  very  different  manner,  when  his  patrons 
had  determined  for  him  that  he  was  to  embrace  the  ecclesiastical 
life.  But  though  his  mistress'  heart  was  in  this  calling,  his  own 
never  was  much.  After  that  first  fervour  of  simple  devotion 
which  his  beloved  Jesuit  priest  had  inspired  in  him,  speculative 
theology  took  but  little  hold  upon  the  young  man's  mind.  When 
his  early  credulity  was  disturbed,  and  his  saints  and  virgins  taken 
out  of  his  worship,  to  rank  little  higher  than  the  divinities  of 
Olympus,  his  belief  became  acquiescence  rather  than  ardour:  and 
he  made  his  mind  up  to  a.ssume  the  cassock  and  bands,  as  another 
man  does  to  wear  a  breastplate  and  jackboots,  or  to  mount  a 
merchant's  desk,  for  a  livelihood,  and  from  obedience  and  neces- 
sity, rather  than  from  choice.  There  were  scores  of  such  men  in 
Mr.  Esmond's  time  at  the  universities,  who  were  going  to  the 
Church  with  no  better  calling  than  his. 

When  Thomas  Tusher  was  gone,  a  feeling  of  no  small  depression 
and  disquiet  fell  upon  young  Esmond,  of  which,  though  he  did  not 
complain,  his  kind  mistress  must  have  divined  the  cause:  for  soon 
after  she  showed  not  only  that  she  understood  the  reason  of  Harry's 
melancholy,  but  could  provide  a  remedy  for  it.  Her  habit  was 
thus  to  watch,  unobservedly,  those  to  whom  duty  or  affection 
boimd  her,  and  to  prevent  their  designs,  or  to  fulfil  them,  when  she 
had  the  power.  It  was  this  lady's  disposition  to  think  kindnesses, 
and  devise  silent  bounties  and  to  scheme  benevolence,  for  those 
about  her.  We  take  such  goodness,  for  the  most  part,  as  if  it  was 
our  due;  the  Marys  who  bring  ointment  for  our  feet  get  but  little 
thanks.  Some  of  us  never  feel  this  devotion  at  all  or  are  moved 
by  it  to  gratitude  or  acknowledgment;  others  only  recall  it  years 
after,  when  the  days  are  past  in  which  those  sweet  kindnesses  were 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  13T 

spent  on  us,  and  we  offer  back  our  return  for  the  debt  by  a  poor 
tardy  payment  of  tears.  Then  forgotten  tones  of  love  recur  to  us, 
and  kind  glances  shine  out  of  the  past— oh,  so  bright,  and  clear! — 
oh,  so  longed  after! — because  they  are  out  of  reach;  as  holiday  music 
from  vvithinside  a  prison  wall — or  sunshine  seen  through  the  bars; 
more  prized  because  unattainable — more  bright  because  of  the 
contrast  of  present  darkness  and  solitude,  whence  there  is  no 
escape. 

All  the  notice,  then,  which  Lady  Castlewood  seemed  to  take  of 
Harry  Esmond's  melancholy,  upon  Tom  Tusher's  departure,  was, 
by  a  gaiety  unusual  to  her,  to  attempt  to  dispel  his  gloom.  She 
made  his  three  scholars  (herself  being  the  chief  one)  more  cheerful 
than  ever  they  had  been  before,  and  more  docile,  too,  all  of  tlieni 
learning  and  reading  much  more  than  they  had  been  accustomed 
to  do.  "For  wlio  knows,"  said  the  lady,  "what  may  happen,  and 
whether  we  may  be  able  to  keep  such  a  learned  tutor  long?" 

Frank  Esmond  said  he  for  his  part  did  not  want  to  learn  any 
more,  and  cousin  Harry  might  shut  up  his  book  whenever  he  liked, 
if  he  would  come  out  a-fishing;  and  little  Beatrix  declared  she 
would  send  for  Tom  Tusher,  and  he  would  be  glad  enough  to  come 
to  Castlewood,  if  Harry  chose  to  go  away. 

At  last  comes  a  messenger  from  Winchester  one  day,  bearer  of  a 
\  letter,  with  a  great  black  seal,  from  the  Dean  there,  to  say  that  his 
sister  was  dead,  and  had  left  her  fortune  of  £2000  among  her  six 
I  nieces,  the  Dean's  daughters ;  and  many  a  time  since  has  Harry 
I  Esmond  recalled  the  flushed  face  and  eager  look  wherewith,  after 
.  this  intelligence,  his  kind  lady  regarded  him.  She  did  not  pretend 
to  any  grief  about  the  deceased  relative,  from  whom  she  and  lier 
family  had  been  many  years  parted. 

When  my  Lord  heard  of  the  news,  he  also  did  not  make  any 
very  long  face.  "The  money  will  come  very  handy  to  furnish  the 
music-room  and  the  cellar,  which  is  getting  lovv^,  and  buy  your 
Ladyship  a  coach  and  a  couple  of  horses,  that  will  do  indifferent  to 
ride  or  for  the  coach.  And,  Beatrix,  you  shall  have  a  spinnet ;  and, 
Frank   you  shall  have  a  little  horse  from  Hexton  Fair;  and,  Harry. 


138  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

you  shall  have  five  pounds  to  buy  some  books,"  said  my  Lord,  who 
was  generous  with  his  own,  and  indeed  with  other  folks'  money. 
"I  wish  your  aunt  would  die  once  a  year,  Rachel;  we  could  spend 
your  money,  and  all  your  sisters',  too."  j 

"I  have  but  one  aunt — and — and  I  have  another  use  for  the 
money,  my  Lord,"  says  my  Lady,  turning  very  red. 

"Another  use,  my  dear;  and  what  do  you  know  about  money?" 
cries  my  Lord.  "And  what  the  devil  is  there  that  T  don't  give  you 
which  you  want?" 

"I  intend  to  give  this  money — can't  you  fancy  how,  my  Lord?" 

My  Lord  swore  one  of  his  large  oaths  that  he  did  not  know  in 
tiie  least  what  she  meant. 

"I  intend  it  for  Harry  Esmond  to  go  to  college.  Cousin  Harry, " 
says  my  Lady,  "you  mustn't  stay  longer  in  this  dull  place,  but 
make  a  name  to  yourself,  and  for  us,  too,  Harry." 

"D it,   Harry's  well  enough   here,"'    says   my   Lord,    for  a 

moment  looking  rather  sulky. 

"Is  Harry  going  away?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  will  go 
away?"  cry  out  Frank  and  Beatrix  at  one  breath. 

"But  he  will  come  back:  and  this  will  always  be  his  home," 
cries  my  Lady,  with  blue  eyes  looking  a  celestial  kindness :  "and 
his  scholars  will  always  love  him;  won't  they?" 

"By  G ,  Rachel,  you're  a  good  woman!"  says  my  Lord,  seiz- 
ing my  Lady's  hand,  at  which  she  blushed  very  much,  and  shrank 
back,  putting  her  children  before  her.  "I  wish  you  joy,  my  kins- 
man,'' he  continued,  giving  Harry  Esmond  a  hearty  slap  on  the 
shoulder.  "I  won't  balk  your  luck.  Go  to  Cambridge,  boy;  and 
when  Tusher  dies  you  shall  have  the  living  here,  if  you  are  not 
better  provided  by  that  time.  We'll  furnish  the  dining-room  and 
buy  the  horses  another  year.  I'll  give  thee  a  nag  out  of  the  stable: 
take  any  one  except  my  hack  and  the  bay  gelding  and  the  coach 
horses;  and  God  speed  thee,  my  boy!*' 

"Have  the  sorrel,  Harry;  'tis  a  good  one.  Father  says 'tis  the 
best  in  the  stable,"  says  little  Frank,  clapping  his  hands,  and  jump- 
ing up.     "Let's  come  and  see  him  in  the  stable. "     And  the  other, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  139 

in  his  delight  and  eagerness,  was  for  leaving  the  room  that  instant 
to  arrange  about  his  journey 

The  Lady  Castlewood  looked  after  him  with  sad  penetrating 
glances.  "He  wishes  to  be  gone  already,  my  Lord,"  said  she  to  her 
husband. 

The  young  man  hung  back  abashed.  "Indeed,  I  would  stay  for 
ever,  if  your  Ladyship  bade  me,"  he  said. 

"And  thou  wouldst  be  a  fool  for  thy  pains,  kinsman,"  said  my 
Lord.  "Tut,  tut,  man.  Go  and  see  the  world.  Sow  thy  wild  oats; 
and  take  the  best  luck  that  Fate  sends  thee.  I  wish  I  were  a  boy 
again  that  I  might  go  to  college,  and  taste  the  Trumpington 
ale." 

"Ours,  indeed,  is  but  a  dull  home,"  cries  ray  Lady,  with  a  little 
of  sadness  and,  maybe,  of  satire,  in  her  voice:  "an  old  glum  house, 
half  ruined,  and  the  rest  only  half  furnished;  a  woman  and  two 
children  are  but  poor  company  for  men  that  are  accustomed  to 
better.  We  are  only  fit  to  be  your  worships'  handmaids,  and  your 
pleasures  must  of  necessity  lie  elsewhere  than  at  home." 

"Curse  me,  Rachel,  if  1  know  now  whether  thou  art  in  earnest 
or  not,"  said  my  Lord. 

"In  earnest,  my  Lord!"  says  she,  still  clinging  by  one  of  her 
children.  "Is  there  much  subject  here  for  joke?"  And  she  made 
him  a  grand  curtsey,  and,  giving  a  stately  look  to  Harry  Esmond, 
which  seemed  to  say,  "Remember;  you  understand  me,  though  he 
does  not,"  she  left  the  room  with  her  children. 

"Since  she  found  out  that  confounded  Hexton  business,"  my 
Lord  said — "and  be  hanged  to  them  that  told  her! — she  has  not 
been  the  same  woman.  She,  who  used  to  be  as  humble  as  a  milk- 
maid, is  as  proud  as  a  princess,"  says  my  Lord.  "Take  my  counsel, 
Harry  Esmond,  and  keep  clear  of  women.  Since  I  have  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  jades,  they  have  given  me  nothing  but  disgust. 
I  had  a  wife  at  Tangier,  with  whom,  as  she  couldn't  speak  a  word 
of  my  language,  you'd  have  thought  I  might  lead  a  quiet  life.  But 
she  tried  to  poison  me,  because  she  was  jealous  of  a  Jew  girl.  There 
was  your  aunt,  for  a,unt  she  is — Aunt  Jezebel,  a  pretty  life  your 


140  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

father  led  with  her!  And  here's  my  Lady.  When  I  saw  her  on  a 
pillion  riding  behind  the  Dean  her  father,  she  looked  and  was  such 
a  baby,  that  a  sixpenny  doll  might  have  pleased  her.  And  now  you 
see  what  she  is — hands  otT,  highty-tighty,  high  and  mighty,  an 
empress  couldn't  be  grander.  Pass  us  the  tankard,  Harry  my  boy. 
A  mug  of  beer  and  a  toast  at  morn,  says  my  host.     A  toast  and  a 

mug  of  beer  at  noon,  says  my  dear.     D it,  Polly  loves  a  mug  of 

ale,  too,  and  laced  with  brandy,  by  Jove!"  Indeed,  I  suppose  they 
drank  it  together;  for  my  Lord  was  often  thick  in  his  speech  at 
mid-day  dinner ;  and  at  night,  at  supper,  speechless  altogether. 

Harry  Esmond's  departure  resolved  upon,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
Lady  Castlewood,  too,  rejoiced  to  lose  him ;  for  more  than  once, 
when  the  lad,  ashamed  perhaps  at  his  own  secret  eagerness  to  go 
away  (at  any  rate  stricken  with  sadness  at  the  idea  of  leaving 
those  from  whom  he  had  received  so  many  proofs  of  love  and  kind- 
ness inestimable),  tried  to  express  to  his  mistress  his  sense  of 
gratitude  to  her,  and  his  sorrow  at  quitting  those  who  had  so 
sheltered  and  tended  a  nameless  and  houseless  orphan.  Lady  Castle- 
wood cut  short  his  protests  of  love  and  his  lamentations,  and 
would  hear  of  no  grief,  but  only  look  forward  to  Harry's  fame  and 
prospects  in  life.  "Our  little  legacy  will  keep  you  for  fouv  years 
like  a  gentleman.  Heaven's  Providence,  your  own  genius,  indus- 
try, honour,  must  do  the  rest  for  you.  Castlewood  will  always  be 
a  home  for  you ;  and  these  children,  whom  you  have  taught  and 
loved,  will  not  forget  to  love  you.  And,  Harry,''  said  she  (and  this 
was  the  only  time  when  she  spoke  with  a  tear  in  her  eye,  or  a 
tremor  in  her  voice),  "it  may  happen  in  the  course  of  nature  that 
I  shall  be  called  away  from  them :  and  their  father — and — and  they 
will  need  true  friends  and  protectors.  Promise  me  that  you  will  be 
true  to  them — as — as  I  think  I  have  been  to  you — and  a  mother's 
fond  prayer  and  blessing  go  with  you. " 

"So  help  me  God,  madam,  I  will.''  said  Harry  Esmond,  falling 
on  his  knees,  and  kissing  the  hand  of  his  dearest  mistress.  "If  you 
will  have  me  stay  now,  I  will.  What  matters  whether  or  no  I 
make  my  way  in  life,  or  whether  a  poor  bastard  dies  as  unknov/n 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  141 

as  he  is  now?      'Tis  enough  that  I  have  your  love  and  kindness 
surely;  and  to  make  you  happy  is  duty  enough  for  me." 

"Happy!"  says  she;  "but  indeed  I  ought  to  be,  with  my  chil- 
dren, and " 

"Not  happy!"  cried  Esmond  (for  he  knew  what  her  life  was, 
though  he  and  his  mistress  never  spoke  a  word  concerning  it).  "Tf 
not  happiness,  it  may  be  ease.  Let  me  stay  and  work  for  you — let 
me  stay  and  be  your  servant." 

"Indeed,  you  are  best  away,"  said  my  Lady,  laughing,  as  she 
put  her  hand  on  the  boy's  head  for  a  moment.  "You  shall  stay  in 
no  such  dull  place.  You  shall  go  to  college  and  distinguish  your- 
self as  becomes  your  name.  That  is  how  you  shall  please  me  best : 
and— and  if  my  children  want  you,  or  I  want  you,  you  shall  come 
to  us;  and  I  know  we  may  count  on  you." 

"May  Heaven  forsake  me  if  you  may  not!"  Harrj^  said,  getting 

up  from  his  knee. 

i         "And  my  knight  longs  for  a  dragon  this  instant  that  he  may 

'  fight,"  said  my  lady,  laughing;  which  speech  made  Harry  Esmond 

I  start,  and  turn  red;  for  indeed  the  very  thought  was  in  his  mind, 

that  he  would  like  that  some  chance  should  immediately  happen 

whereby  he  might  show  his  devotion.    And  it  pleased  him  to  think 

that  his  lady  had  called  him  "her  knight,"  and  often  and  often  he 

recalled  this  to  his  mind,  and  prayed  that  he  might  be  her  true 

knight,  too. 

My  Lady's  bedchamber  window  looked  out  over  the  country, 
and  \'ou  could  see  from  it  the  purple  hills  beyond  Castlewood  vil- 
lage, the  green  common  betwixt  that  and  the  Hall,  and  the  old 
bridge  which  crossed  over  the  river.  When  Harry  Esmond  w^ent 
away  for  Cambridge,  little  Frank  ran  alongside  his  horse  as 
far  as  the  bridge,  and  there  Harry  stopped  for  a  moment,  and 
looked  back  at  the  house  where  the  best  part  of  his  life  had  been 
passed.  It  lay  before  him  with  its  grey  familiar  towers,  a  xjinnacle 
or  two  shining  in  the  sun,  the  buttresses  and  terrace  vralls  casting 
great  blue  shades  on  the  grass.  And  Harry  remembered,  all  his 
life  after,  how  he  saw  his  mistress  at  the  window  looking  out  on 


142  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

him  in  a  white  robe,  the  little  Beatrix's  chestnut  curls  resting  at 
her  mother's  side.  Both  waved  a  farewell  to  him,  and  little  Frank 
sobbed  to  leave  him.  Yes,  he  u'ould  be  his  Lady's  true  knight,  he 
vowed  in  his  heart;  he  waved  her  an  adieu  with  his  hat.  The 
village  people  had  Good-bye  to  say  to  him  too.  All  knew  that 
Master  Harry  was  going  to  college,  and  most  of  them  had  a  kind 
word  and  a  look  of  farewell.  I  do  not  stop  to  say  what  adventures 
he  began  to  imagine,  or  wliat  career  to  devise  for  himself  before  he 
had  ridden  three  miles  from  home.  He  had  not  read  Monsieur 
G  all  and 's  ingenious  Arabian  tales  as  yet ;  but  be  sure  that  there  are 
other  folks  who  build  castles  in  the  air,  and  have  fine  hopes,  and 
kick  them  down  too,  besides  honest  Alnaschar. 


CHAPTER  X 

I   GO  TO   CAMBRIDGE,    AND   DO  BUT   LITTLE   GOOD  THERE 

My  Lord,  who  said  he  should  like  to  revisit  the  old  haunts  of  his 
youth,  kindly  accompanied  Harry  Esmond  in  his  first  journey  to 
Cambridge.  Their  road  lay  through  London,  where  my  Lord 
Viscount  would  also  have  Harry  stay  a  few  days  to  show  him  the 
pleasures  of  the  town  before  he  entered  upon  his  university  studies, 
and  whilst  here  Harry's  patron  conducted  the  young  man  to  my 
Lady  Dowager's  house  at  Chelsey  near  London:  the  kind  lady  at 
Castlewood  having  specially  ordered  that  the  young  gentleman  and 
the  old  should  pay  a  respectful  visit  in  that  quarter. 

Her  Ladyship  the  Viscountess  Dowager  occupied  a  handsome 
new  house  in  Chelsey,  with  a  garden  behind  it,  and  facing  the 
river,  always  a  bright  and  animated  sight  with  its  swarms  of  sail- 
ors, barges,  and  wherries.  Harry  laughed  at  recognising  in  the 
l^arlour  the  well-remembered  old  piece  of  Sir  Peter  Lely,  wherein 
his  father's  widow  was  represented  as  a  virgin  huntress,  armed 
with  a  gilt  bow-and-arrow,  and  encumbered  only  with  that  small 
quantity  of  drapery  which  it  would  seem  the  virgins  in  King 
Charles's  day  were  accustomed  to  wear. 

My  Lady  Dowager  had  left  off  this  peculiar  habit  of  huntress 
when  she  married.  But  though  she  was  now  considerably  past 
sixty  years  of  age,  I  believe  she  thought  that  airy  nymph  of  the 
picture  could  still  be  easily  recognised  in  the  venerable  personage 
who  gave  an  audience  to  Harry  and  his  patron. 

She  received  the  young  man  with  even  more  favour  than  she 
showed  to  the  elder,  for  she  chose  to  carry  on  the  conversation  in 
French,  in  which  my  Lord  Castlewood  was  no  great  proficient,  and 
expressed  her  satisfaction  at  finding  that  Mr.  Esmond  could  speak 
fluently  in  that  language.    "  'Twas  the  only  one  fit  for  polite  conver- 

143 


144  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

nation,"  she  condescended  to  say,  '"and  suitable  to  persons  of  high 
breeding."" 

My  Lord  laughed  afterwards,  as  the  gentlemen  went  away,  at 
his  kinswoman's  behaviour.  He  said  he  remembered  the  time  when 
she  could  speak  English  fast  enough,  and  joked  in  his  jolly  way  at 
the  loss  he  had  had  of  such  a  lovely  wife  as  that. 

My  Lady  Viscountess  deigned  to  ask  his  Lordship  news  of  his 
wife  and  children:  she  had  heard  that  Lady  Castlewood  had  had 
the  smallpox;  she  hoped  she  was  not  so  very  much  disfigured  as 
people  said. 

At  this  remark  about  his  wife's  malady,  my  Lord  Viscount 
winced  and  turned  red;  but  the  Dowager,  in  speaking  of  the  dis- 
figurement of  the  young  lady,  turned  to  her  looking-glass  and 
examined  her  old  wrinkled  countenance  in  it  with  such  a  grin  of 
satisfaction,  that  it  was  all  her  guests  could  do  to  refrain  from 
laughing  in  her  ancient  face. 

She  asked  Harry  what  his  profession  was  to  be ;  and  my  Lord, 
saying  that  the  lad  was  to  take  orders,  and  have  the  living  of 
Castlewood  v/hen  old  Doctor  Tusher  vacated  it,  she  did  not  seem  to 
show  any  particular  anger  at  the  notion  of  Harry's  becoming  a 
Church  of  England  clergyman,  nay,  was  rather  glad  than  other- 
wise  that  the  youth  should  be  so  jjrovided  for.  She  bade  Mr. 
Esmond  not  to  forget  to  pay  her  a  visit  whenever  he  passed  through 
London,  and  carried  lier  graciousness  so  far  as  to  send  a  purse  with 
twenty  guineas  for  him,  to  the  tavern  at  which  my  Lord  put  up 
(the  "Greyhound,"' in  Charing  Cross);  and,  along  with  this  wel- 
come gift  for  her  kinsman,  she  sent  a  little  doll  for  a  present  to  mj^ 
Lord's  little  daughter  Beatrix,  who  was  growing  beyond  the  age  of 
dolls  by  this  time,  and  was  as  tall  almost  as  her  venerable  relative. 

After  seeing  the  town,  and  going  to  the  plays,  my  Lord  Castle- 
wood and  Esmond  rode  together  to  Cambridge,  spending  two  pleas- 
ant days  upon  the  journey.  Those  rapid  new  coaches  were  not 
established,  as  yet,  that  performed  the  whole  journey  between 
London  and  the  University  in  a  single  day;  however,  tlie  road  was 
pleasant  and  short  enough  to  Harry  Esmond,  and  he  always  grate- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  145 

fully  remembered  that  happy  lioliday  which  his  kind  patron  gave 
him. 

Mr.  Esmond  was  entered  a  pensioner  of  Trinity  College  in  Cam- 
bridge, to  which  famous  college  my  Lord  had  also  in  his  youth 
belonged.  Doctor  Montague  was  master  at  this  time,  and  received 
my  Lord  Viscount  with  great  politeness:  so  did  Mr.  Bridge,  who 
was  appointed  to  be  Harry's  tutor.  Tom  Tuslier,  who  was  of 
Emanuel  College,  and  was  by  this  time  a  junior  soph,  came  to  wait 
upon  my  Lord,  and  to  take  Harry  under  his  protection ;  and  com- 
fortable rooms  being  provided  for  him  in  the  great  court  close  by 
the  gate,  and  near  to  the  famous  Mr.  Newton's  lodgings,  Harry's 
patron  took  leave  of  him  with  many  kind  words  and  blessings,  and 
an  admonition  to  him  to  behave  better  at  the  University  than  my 
Lord  himself  had  ever  done. 

'Tis  needless  in  these  memoirs  to  go  at  any  length  into  the  par- 
ticulars of  Harry  Esmond's  college  career.  It  was  like  that  of  a 
hundred  young  gentlemen  of  that  day.  But  he  had  the  ill-fortune 
to  be  older  by  a  couple  of  years  tlian  most  of  his  fellow-students ; 
and  by  his  previous  solitary  mode  of  bringing  up,  the  circum- 
stances of  his  life,  and  the  peculiar  thoughtfulness  and  melancholy 
that  liad  naturally  engendered,  he  was,  in  a  great  measure,  cut  off 
from  the  society  of  comrades  who  were  much  younger  and  higher- 
spirited  than  he.  His  tutor,  who  had  bowed  down  to  the  ground, 
as  he  walked  my  Lord  over  the  colle^  grass-plats,  changed  his 
behaviour  as  soon  as  the  nobleman's  b&ick  was  turned,  and  was — at 
least  Harry  thought  so — harsh  and  ovei*bearing.  "When  the  lads 
used  to  assemble  in  their  greges  in  hall,  Hariy^ound  himself  alohe 
in  the  midst  of  that  little  flock  of  boys;  they  raised  a  great  laugh' 
at  liim  when  he  was  set  on  to  read  Latin,  which  he  did  with  the 
foreign  pronunciation  taught  to  him  by  his  old  master,  the  Jesuit, 
than  wliich  he  knew  no  other.  Mr.  Bridge,  the  tutor,  ma4e  him 
the  object  of  clumsy  jokes,  in  which  he  was  fond  of  indulging. 
The  young  man's  spirit  was  chafed,  and  his  vanity  mortified;  and. 
he  found  himself,  for  some  time,  as  lonely  in  this  place  as  ever  he 
had  been  at  Castle  wood,  whither  he  longed  to  return.     His  birth 


14S  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

was  a  source  of  shame  to  him,  and  he  fancied  a  hundred  slights  and 
sneers  from  young  and  old,  who,  no  doubt,  had  treated  him  better 
had  he  met  them  himself  more  frankly.  And  as  he  looks  back,  in 
calmer  days,  upon  this  period  of  his  life,  which  he  thought  so 
unhappy,  he  can  see  that  his  own  pride  and  vanity  caused  no  small 
part  of  the  mortifications  which  he  attributed  to  others'  ill-will. 
The  world  deals  good-naturedly  v»dth  good-natured  people,  and  I 
never  knew  a  sulky  misanthropist  who  quarrelled  with  it,  but  it 
was  he,  and  not  it,  that  was  in  the  wrong.  Tom  Tusher  gave  Harry 
plenty  of  good  advice  on  this  subject,  for  Tom  had  both  good  sense 
and  good-humour;  but  Mr.  Harry  chose  to  treat  his  senior  with  a 
great  deal  of  superfluous  disdain  and  absurd  scorn,  and  would  by  no 
means  part  from  his  darling  injuries,  in  which,  very  likely,  no  man 
believed  but  himself.  As  for  honest  Doctor  Bridge,  the  tutor  found, 
after  a  few  trials  of  wit  with  the  pupil,  that  the  young  man  was 
an  ugly  subject  for  wit,  and  that  the  laugh  was  often  turned 
against  him.  This  did  not  make  tii^i©^  and  pupil  any  better  friends ; 
but  had,  so  far,  an  advantage  for  Esmond,  that  Mr.  Bridge  was 
induced  to  leave  him  alone;  and  so  long  as*he'kept  his  chapels,  and 
did  the  college  exercises  required  of  him,  Bridge  was  content  not 
to  see  Harry's  glum  face  in  his  class,  and  to  leave  him  to  read  and 
sulk  for  himself  in  his  own  chamber. 

A  poem  or  two  in  Latjn  and  English,  which  were  pronounced  to 
have  some  merit,  and  a  LMirr  oration  (for  Mr.  Esmond  could  write 
that  language  better  than  pironounce  it),  got  him  a  little  reputation 
botli'^vith  the  authorities  of  the  University  and  amongst  the  young 
v^n,  with  whom  he-'lDegan  to  pass  for  more  than  he  was  worth. 
A  few  victories  over  their  common  enemy,  Mr.  Bridge,  made  them 
^     incline  towards  him,  and  look  upon  him  as  the  champion  of  their 
V  order  against  the  seniors.     Such  of  the  lads  as  he  took  into  his  con- 
5  fidence*found  him  not  so  gloomy  and  haughty  as  his  appearance  led 
;  theM   to   believe;  and   Don  Dismallo,   as  he   was   called,    became 
firesently  a  person  of  some  little  importance  in  his  college,  and 
was,  as  he  believes,  set  down  by  the  seniors  there  as  rather  a  dan- 
gerous character. 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  14? 


jycm  Dismallo  was  a  staunch  young  Jacobite,  like  the  rest  of  his 
f.  .  ,1,  gave 'oimself  many  absurd  airs  of  loyalty;  used  to  invite 
nemks  to  burgundy,  and  give  the  King's  health  on  King 
Jan^!?s,s  by•t7lfi;l■:^y  ;  wore  black  on  the  day  of  his  abdication;  fasted 
ou  tiu^  ^  ajiji4,\^i;5>v:y  of  King  William's  coronation;  and  performed 
a  th(>i,r:xi^s\jjj^^i^- J,  antics,  of  which  he  smiles  now  to  think. 

Thei>^J|JQ^^^a1a,|^d  many  remonstrances  on  Tom  Tusher's  part, 
who  \\-ai  alj^fV^^j^^ppj^end  to  the  powers  that  be,  as  Esmond  was 
always  i:i  .^u^j^i^g^  -^  them.  Tom  was  a  Whig,  while  Esmond 
was  a  Torj^.pg'^^i^  ji^Yfljr  missed  a  lecture,  and  capped  the  proctor 
with  the  P«f'f^^i{ig^  of nt)9ws.  No  wonder  he  sighed  over  Harry's 
insubordinate  (m>5^|L}^v%(:3#(^  v^'^  angry  when  the  others  laughed  at 
him.  But  th^,H^7^- ^^-^^own  to  have  my  Lord  Viscount's  pro- 
tection, Tom  rtpgd^i^t^^^t^'^lj^^  have  broken  with  him  altogether. 
But  honest  Tom^^^^vgKl  ^&yf>-i^P  a  comrade  as  long  as  he  was  the 
friend  of  a  great.^j^,^  ^Sj^^  s^^^sj^te/Jut  of  scheming  on  Tom's 
part,  but  a  naturai^i^l^|^¥Lt5§i^fl^*^^^^|^*i^'gi"eat.  'Twas  no  hypoc- 
risy in  him  to  flatt€^gj^t^|^j^,li^  ^  tlj^rl^ind,  which  was  always 
perfectly  good-humo^|¥^^ol?J^.g^l^a(ft^'&^%'ile. 

Harry  had  very  liberal  jj^jQ^^r^jMg.oiofevihis  dear  mistress  of 
Castlewood  not  only  regularl^g^jjM^c|,i§ijBlfjbut  the  Dowager  of 
Chelsey  made  her  donation  an^u|ll,  and|.r^jEJ(rlA'i.4  Esmond  at  her 
house  near  London  every  Chris^^^ft^  ^tftnla, spitemr  these  benefac- 
tions, Esmond  was  constantly  I>«pf?t»ik3wiil^t{7,r03aa(jar  >nder  with 
how  small  a  stipend  from  his  fat}2^^^i^T;^sfee«%.viitoiveia.  "--o  make 
a  good  figure.  'Tis  true  that  Harr5(i)<^«^i:^il:^aryfe,  u^d  leti^  bw 
money  very  freely,  which  Thomasr;R<e^^;ri)^j;.[9l^kitokfiie'\vas  l 
the  famous  Duke  of  Marlborough  irj^^liM  ib«tan0<ii^tvt^jK>,iigettin^;  h 
present  of  fifty  pieces,  when  a  young  man,  fronfNi^oiiie  foolish 
woman  who  fell  in  love  with  his  good  looks,  showed  tli^Bion-ey  to 
Cadogan  in  a  drawer  scores  of  years  after,  where  it  had  l^i^  cf^'r 
since  he  had  sold  his  beardless  honour  to  procure  it.  I  do  not  nifiBan 
to  say  that  Tom  ever  let  out  his  good  looks  so  profitably,  for  natuiPi 
had  not  endowed  him  with  any  particular  charms  ot  person,  and 
he  ever  was  a  pattern  of  moral  behaviour,  losing  no  opportunity  of 


148  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

giving  the  very  best  advice  to  his  younger  comrade;  with  which 
article,  to  do  him  justice,  he  parted  very  freely.  Not  bub  that  he 
was  a  merry  fellow,  too,  in  his  way ;  he  loved  a  joke,  if  by  good 
fortune  he  understood  it,  and  took  his  share  generously  of  'a  bottle 
if  another  paid  for  it  and  especially  if  there  wa^^-^^Fx^  lord  in 
company  to  drink  it.  In  these  cases  there  was  not*'^^fi'^y(i^^- drinker 
in  the  University  than  Mr.  Tusher  could  be;  aiM^V ^*^'f3ftifying  to 
behold  him,  fresh  shaved  and  with  smug  fcice,'^Sb^i^^di5'*^\menl" 
at  early  chapel  in  the  morning.  In  his  reading.  pS^^HUHir  permitted 
himself  to  go  a-gadding  after  all  the  Nine  !ftWfS^.  ft^i^^-f  ery  likely 
had  but  little  favour  from  any  one  of  tiirlfei^#!l^3*?B#rom  Tusher, 
who  had  no  more  turn  for  poetry  thaiffti^^Klj^^^^iWR,' Nevertheless, 
by  a  dogged  perseverance  and  obsequi^^H^^^iii'^^i^ig  the  divine 
Calliope,  got  himself  a  prize,  and  som^"iW^i#w^e^niversity,  and 
a  fellowship  at  his  college,  as  a  rew^if'TP^iilftt^^dfership.  In  this 
time  of  Mr.  Esmond's  life,  fie^^t^flKTe^^lS^'ttteftig  which  he  ever 
could  boast  of,  and  passeA^»§fe6wpl<ll^r^i#H%k  greedily  devour- 
ing all  the  books  on  ^**«tt'  ife  ^58^^^ylMii3*-  In  this  desultory 
way  the  works  of  mos^«^#ffj^EStf^BS^,'^toeii,  and  ItaUan  poets 
came  under  his  eyes.  an*>|i^4if»ft5"ft^Sife%t4fing  of  the  Spanish  tongue 
likewise,  besides  the  afi^Mai'tttfe^Sl^is,  of  which,  at  least  of  Latin, 
he  was  a  tolerable^fiieai^r.f'aB  -i«J/fli^- 

Then,  aboutf^Mkift^jAltt^lBfe'liSl^rsity  career,  he  fell  to  reading 
for  the  profflssioiii*^ 'Wlll^Wcft^^^  prudence  rather  than  inclina- 
tion called  .him'v  4l«i<i***^a*^^fi*btly  bewildered  in  theological 
controversv-*  ■Ptfiilikfi^&i^kf^'^bf.'^'liis  reading  (which  was  neither 
pursued'^'itWtiiiit  iieirihi^n'»4*moY  that  devout  mind  which  such  a 
str^y  requir«(k^tJie  yoltfffilMiid^ himself  at  the  end  of  one  month  a 
Papist,  andotfc'fis  about  to  proclaim  his  faith;  the  next  month  a 
Protestan^  with  Chillingworth ;  and  the  tliird  a  sceptic,  with 
ribbbegiand  Bayle.  Whereas  honest  Tom  Tusher  never  permitted 
his  iiiind  to  stray  out  of  the  prescribed  University  path,  accepted 
the  Thirty-Nine  Articles  with  all  his  heart,  and  would  have  signed 
and  sworn  to  other  nine-and-thirty  with  entire  obedience.  Harry's 
wilfulness  in  this  matter,  and  disorderlv  thoughts  and  conversa- 


THE  HISTORY  OF'  HENRY  ESMOND  149 

tion,  so  shocked  and  afflicted  his  f;;enior,  that  there  grew  up  a  cold- 
ness and  estrangement  between  them,  so  that  they  became  scarce 
more  than  mere  acquaintances,  fr(»m  having  been  intimate  friends 
when  they  came  to  college  first.  Politics  ran  high,  too,  at  the  Uni- 
versity; and  here,  also,  the  young  men  were  at  variance.  Tom 
professed  himself,  albeit  a  High  Churchman,  a  strong-  King 
William's  man;  whereas  Harry  brought  his  lamiiy  Tory  politics  to 
college  with  him,  to  Avhich  he  must  add  a  dangerous  admiration  for 
Oliver  Cromwell,  whose  side,  or  King  James's  by  turns,  he  often 
chose  to  take  in  the  disputes  wiiich  the  young  gentlemen  used  to 
hold  in  each  other's  rooms,  where  they  debated  on  the  state  of  the 
nation,  crowned  and  deposed  kings,  and  toasteo.  past  and  present 
lieroes  and  beauties  in  flagons  of  college  ale. 

Thus,  either  from  the  circumstances  of  his  birth,  or  iJje  natural 
melancholy  of  his  disposition,  Esmond  came  to  live  very  mich  by 
himself  during  his  stay  at  the  University,  having  neither  ambition 
enough  to  distiuguish  himself  in  the  college  career,  nor  caring  to 
mingle  with  the  mere  J!)leasures  and  boyish  frolics  of  the  students, 
wlio  were,  for  the  most  part,  two  or  three  years  younger  than  he. 
He  fancied  that  the  gentlemen  of  the  common-room  of  his  college 
sliglited  him  on  account  of  his  birth,  and  hence  kept  aloof  from 
their  society.  It  may  be  that  he  made  the  ill-will,  which  he 
imagined  came  from  them,  by  his  own  behaviour,  which,  as  he 
looks  back  on  it  in  after-life,  he  now  sees  was  mi)rose  and  haughty. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  as  tenderly  grateful  for  kindness  as  he  was 
susceptible  of  slight  and  wrong;  and,  lonely  as  he  was  generally, 
yet  had  one  or  two  very  warm  friendships  for  his  companions  of 
those  days. 

One  of  these  was  a  queer  gentleman  that  resided  in  the  Univer- 
sity, though  he  was  no  member  of  it,  and  was  the  professor  of  a 
science  scarce  recognised  in  the  common  course  of  college  educa- 
tion. This  w^as  a  French  refugee  officer,  who  had  been  driven  out 
of  his  native  country  at  the  time  of  the  Protestant  persecutions 
there,  and  who  came  to  Cambridge,  where  he  taught  the  science  of 
the  small-sword,  and  set  up  a  saloon-of-anns.     Though  he  declared 


150  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

himself  a  Protestant,  "twas  said  Mr.  Moreau  was  a  Jesuit  in  dis- 
guise ;  indeed,  he  brought  very  strong  recommendations  to  the  Tory 
party,  which  was  pretty  strong  in  that  University,  and  very  likely 
was  one  of  the  many  agents  whom  King  James  had  in  this  coun- 
try. Esmond  found  this  gentleman's  conversation  very  much  more 
agreeable  and  to  his  taste  than  the  talk  of  the  college  divines  in 
the  common-room;  he  never  wearied  of  Moreau's  stories  of  the 
wars  of  Turenne  and  Conde,  in  which  he  had  borne  a  part ;  and 
being  familiar  with  the  French  tongue  from  his  youth,  and  in  a 
place  where  but  few  spoke  it,  his  company  became  very  agreeable 
to  the  brave  old  professor  of  arms,  whose  favourite  pupil  he  was, 
and  who  made  Mr.  Esmond  a  very  tolerable  proficient  in  the  noble 
science  of  escrime. 

At  the  next  term  Esmond  was  to  take  his  degree  of  Bachelor  of 
Arts,  and  afterwards,  in  proper  season,  to  assume  the  cassock  and 
bands  which  his  fond  mistress  would  have  him  wear.  Tom  Tusher 
himself  was  a  parson  and  a  fellow  of  his  college  by  this  time ;  and 
Harry  felt  that  he  would  very  gladly  cede  his  right  to  the  living  of 
Castlewood  to  Tom,  and  that  his  own  calling  was  in  no  way  the 
pulpit.  But  as  he  was  bound,  before  all  things  in  the  world,  to  his 
dear  mistress  at  home,  and  knew  that  a  refusal  on  his  part  would 
grieve  her,  he  determined  to  give  her  no  hint  of  his  unwillingness  to 
the  clerical  office :  and  it  was  in  this  unsatisfactory  mood  of  mind 
that  he  went  to  spend  the  last  vacation  he  should  have  at  Castle- 
wood before  he  took  orders. 


CHAPTER   XI 

I   COME   HOME   FOR   A  HOLIDAY   TO   CASTLEWOOD,    AND   FIND   A 
SKELETON   IN   THE   HOUSE 

At  his  third  long  vacation,  Esmond  came  as  usual  to  Castlewood, 
ilvvays  feeling  an  eager  thrill  of  pleasure  when  he  found  himself 
once  more  in  the  house  where  he  had  passed  so  many  years,  and 
beheld  the  kind  familiar  eyes  of  his  mistress  looking  upon  him. 
She  and  her  children  (out  of  whose  company  she  scarce  ever  saw 
him)  came  to  greet  him.  j\Iiss  Beatrix  was  grown  so  tall  that 
Harry  did  not  quite  know  whether  he  might  kiss  her  or  no;  and 
she  blushed  and  held  back  when  he  offered  that  salutation,  though 
she  took  it,  and  even  courted  it,  when  they  were  alone.  The  young 
lord  was  shooting  up  to  be^like  his  gallant  father  in  look,  though 
with  his  mother's  kind  eyes:  the  lady  of  Castlewood  herself 
seemed  grown,  too,  since  Harry  saw  her — in  her^  look  more  stately, . 
in  her  person  fuller,  in  her  face  still  as  ever  most  tender  and 
friendly,  a  greater  air  of  command  and  decision  than  had  appeared 
in  that  guileless  sweet  countenance  which  Harry  remembered  so 
gratefully.  The  tone  of  her  voice  was  so  much  deeper  and  sadder 
when  she  spoke  and  welcomed  him,  that  it  quite  startled  Esmond, 
who  looked  up  at  her  surprised  as  she  spoke,  when  she  withdrew 
her  eyes  from  him;  nor  did  she  ever  look  at  him  afterwards  when 
his  own  eyes  were  gazing  upon  her.  A  something  hinting  at  grief 
and  secret,  and  filling  his  mind  with  alarm  undefinable,  seemed  to 
speak  with  that  low  thrilling  voice  of  hers,  and  look  out  of  those 
clear  sad  eyes.  Her  greeting  to  Esmond  was  so  cold  that  it  almost 
pained  the  lad  (who  would  have  liked  to  fall  on  his  knees,  and  kiss 
the  skirt  of  her  robe,  so  fond  and  ardent  was  his  respect  and  regard 
for  her),  and  he  faltered  in  answering  the  questions  which  she. 
he  >itating  on  her  side,   began  to  put  to  him.     Was  he  happy  ar 

151 


152  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Cambridge?  Did  he  study  too  hard?  She  hoped  not.  He  had 
grown  very  tall,  and  looked  very  well. 

"He  has  got  a  moustache!"  cries  out  Master  Esmond. 

"Why  does  he  not  wear  a  peruke  like  my  Lord  Mohun?"  asked 
Miss  Beatrix.     "My  Lord  says  that  nobody  wears  their  own  hair." 

"I  believe  j^ou  will  have  to  occupy  your  old  chamber,"  says  my 
Lady.     "I  hope  the  housekeeper  has  got  it  ready." 

"Why,  Mamma,  you  have  been  there  ten  times  these  three  days 
yourself!"  exclaims  Frank. 

"And  she  cut  some  flowers  which  you  planted  in  my  garden — do 
you  remember,  ever  so  many  years  ago? — when  I  was  quite  a  little 
girl,"  cries  out  Miss  Beatrix,  on  tiptoe.  "And  mamma  put  them  in 
your  window." 

"I  remember  when  you  grew  well  after  you  were  ill  that  you 
used  to  like  roses,"  said  the  lady,  blushing  like  one  of  them.  They 
all  conducted  Harry  Esmond  to  his  chamber;  tlie  children  running 
before,  Harry  walking  by  his  mistress  hand-in-)iand. 

The  old  room  had  been  ornamented  and  beautified  not  a  little  lo 
receive  him.  The  flowers  were  in  the  window  in  a  china  vase;  and 
there  was  a  fine  neu-  counterpane  on  the  bed,  which  chatterbox 
Beatrix  said  Mamma  had  made  too.  A  fire  was  crackling  on  the 
hearth,  although  it  was  June.  My  Lady  thought  tlie  room  wanted 
warming;  everything  v.-as  done  to  make  him  happy  and  welcome: 
"And  you  are  not  to  be  a  page  any  longer,  but  a  gentleman  and 
kinsman,  and  to  walk  with  jmpa  and  mamma,"  said  the  children. 
And  as  soon  as  his  dear  mistress  and  children  had  left  him  to  him- 
self, it  was  with  a  heart  overflowing  with  love  and  gratefulness 
that  he  flung  himself  down  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  the  little 
bed,  and  asked  a  blessing  upon  those  who  were  so  kind  to  him. 

The  children,  who  are  always  house  telltales,  soon  made  him 
acquainted  with  the  little  history  of  the  house  and  famih^  Papa 
liad  been  to  London  twice.  Papa  often  went  away  now.  Papa  had 
taken  Beatrix  to  AVestlands,  where  she  was  taller  than  Sir  George 
Harper's  second  daughter,  though  she  was  two  years  younger. 
Papa  had  taken   Beatrix  and  Frank  both   to  Bellminster,    wliere 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  153 

Frank  had  got  the  better  of  Lord  Bellminster's  son  in  a  boxing- 
match — my  Lord,  laughing,  told  Harry  afterwards.  Many  gentle- 
men came  to  stop  with  papa,  and  papa  had  gotten  a  new  game  from 
London,  a  French  game,  called  a  billiard — that  the  French  king 
played  it  very  well:  and  the  Dowager  Lady  Castle  wood  had  sent 
Miss  Beatrix  a  present ;  and  papa  had  gotten  a  new  chaise,  with 
two  little  horses,  which  he  drove  himself,  beside  the  coach,  which 
mamma  went  in ;  and  Doctor  Tusher  was  a  cross  old  plague,  and 
they  did  not  like  to  learn  from  him  at  all;  and  papa  did  not  care 
about  them  learning,  and  laughed  when  they  were  at  their  books, 
but  mamma  liked  theiii  to  learn,  and  taught  them;  and  "I  don't 
think  papa  is  fond  of  mamma,"  said  Miss  Beatrix,  with  her  great 
eyes.  She  had  come  quite  close  up  to  Harry  Esmond  by  the  time 
this  prattle  took  place,  and  was  on  his  knee,  and  had  examined  all 
the  points  of  his  dress,  and  all  the  good  or  bad  features  of  his 
homely  face. 

"You  shouldn't  say  that  papa  is  not  fond  of  mamma,"  said  the 
boy,  at  this  confession.  "Mamma  never  said  so;  and  mamma  for- 
bade you  to  say  it.  Miss  Beatrix." 

'Twas  this,  no  doubt,  that  accounted  for  the  sadness  in  Lady 
Castlewood's  eyes,  and  the  plaintive  vibrations  of  her  voice. 
Who  does  not  know  of  eyes,  lighted  by  love  once,  where  the 
flame  shines  no  more? — of  lamps  extinguished,  once  prop- 
erly trimmed  and  tended?  Every  man  has  such  in  his  house. 
Such  mementoes  make  our  splendidest  chambers  look  blank  and 
sad ;  such  faces  seen  in  a  day  cast  a  gloom  upon  our  sunshine.  So 
oaths  mutually  sworn,  and  invocations  of  Heaven,  and  priest-Iy 
ceremonies,  and  fond  belief,  and  love,  so  fond  and  faitliful  that  it 
never  doubted  but  that  it  should  live  for  ever,  are  all  of  no  avail 
towards  making  love  eternal :  it  dies,  in  spite  of  the  banns  and  the 
priest ;  and  I  have  often  thought  there  should  be  a  visitation  of 
the  sick  for  it,  and  a  funeral  service,  and  an  extreme  unction,  and 
an  abi  in  pace.  It  has  its  course,  like  all  mortal  things — its  begin- 
ning, progress,  and  decay.  It  buds  and  it  blooms  out  into  sunshine, 
and  it  withers  and  ends.     Strephon  and  Chloe  languish  npart;  join 


154  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

in  a  rapture:  and  presently  you  hear  that  Chloe  is  crying,  and 
Strephon  has  broken  his  crook  across  her  back.  Can  you  mend  it 
so  as  to  show  no  marks  of  rupture?  Not  all  the  priests  of  Hymen, 
not  all  the  incantations  to  the  gods,  can  make  it  whole! 

Waking  up  from  dreams,  books,  and  visions  of  college  honours, 
in  whicli  for  two  years  Harry  Esmond  had  been  immersed,  he  found 
himself,  instantly,  on  his  return  home,  in  the  midst  of  this  actual 
tragedy  of  life,  which  absorbed  and  interested  him  more  than  all 
his  tutor  had  taught  him.  The  persons  wliom  he  loved  best  in  the 
world,  and  to  whom  he  owed  most,  were  living  unhappily  together. 
The  gentlest  and  kindest  of  women  was  suffering  ill-usage  and 
shedding  tears  in  secret:  the  man  who  made  her  vrretched  by 
neglect,  if  not  by  violence,  was  Harry's  benefactor  and  patron.  In 
houses  where,  in  place  of  that  sacred,  inmost  flame  of  love,  there 
is  discord  at  the  centre,  the  whole  household  becomes  hypocritical, 
and  each  lies  to  his  neighbour.  The  husband  (or  it  may  be  the 
wife)  lies  when  the  visitor  comes  in,  and  wears  a  grin  of  reconcili- 
ation or  politeness  before  him.  The  wife  lies  (indeed  her  business 
is  to  do  that,  and  to  smile,  however  much  she  is  beaten),  swallows 
her  tears,  and  lies  to  her  lord  and  master ;  lies  in  bidding  little  Jacky 
respect  dear  papa:  lies  in  assuring  grandpapa  that  she  is  perfectly 
happy.  The  servants  lie,  wearing  grave  faces  behind  their 
master's  chair,  and  pretending  to  be  unconscious  of  the  fighting; 
and  so,  from  morning  till  bedtime,  life  is  passed  in  falsehood.  And 
wiseacres  call  this  a  proper  regard  of  morals,  and  point  out  Baucis 
and  Philemon  as  examples  of  good  life. 

If  my  Lady  did  not  speak  of  her  griefs  to  Harry  Esmond,  my 
Lord  was  b}-  no  means  reserved  when  in  his  cups,  and  spoke  his 
mind  very  freely,  bidding  Harry  in  his  coarse  way,  and  with  his 
blunt  language,  beware  of  all  women  as  cheats,  jades,  jilts,  and 
using  other  unmistakable  monosyllables  in  speaking  of  them. 
Indeed,  'twas  the  fashion  of  the  day,  as  I  must  own ;  and  there's 
not  a  writer  of  my  time  of  any  note,  with  the  exception  of  poor 
Dick  Steele,  that  does  not  speak  of  a  woman  as  of  a  slave,  and 
scorn  and  use  her  as  such.     Mr.  Pope,  Mr.  Congreve.  Mr.  xVddison, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  155 

Mr,  Gray,  every  one  of  'em,  sing  in  this  key,  each  according  to  his 
nature  and  politeness,  and  louder  and  fouler  than  all  in  abuse  is 
Doctor  Swift,  who  spoke  of  them,  as  he  treated  them,  worst  of  all. 
Much  of  the  quarrels  and  hatred  which  arise  between  married 
people  come  in  my  mind  from  the  husband's  rage  and  revolt  at  dis- 
covering that  his  slave  and  bedfellow,  who  is  to  minister  to  all  his 
wishes,  and  is  church-sworn  to  honour  and  obey  him — is  his  supe- 
rior ;  and  that  he,  and  not  she,  ought  to  be  the  subordinate  of  the 
twain;  and  in  these  controversies,  I  think,  lay  the  cause  of  my 
Lord's  anger  against  his  lady.  When  he  left  her,  she  began  to 
think  for  herself,  and  her  thoughts  were  not  in  his  favour.  After 
the  illumination,  when  the  love-lamp  is  put  out  that  anon  we  spoke 
of,  and  by  the  common  daylight  we  look  at  the  picture,  what  a 
daub  it  looks!  what  a  clumsy  effigy!  How  many  men  and  wives 
come  to  this  knowledge,  think  you?  And  if  it  be  painful  to  a 
woman  to  find  herself  mated  for  life  to  a  boor,  and  ordered  to  love 
and  honour  a  dullard,  it  is  worse  still  for  the  man  himself  perhaps, 
whenever  in  his  dim  comprehension  the  idea  dawns  that  his  slave 
and  drudge  yonder  is,  in  truth,  his  superior;  that  the  woman  who 
does  his  bidding,  and  submits  to  his  humour,  should  be  his  lord ; 
that  she  can  think  a  thousand  things  beyond  the  power  of  his 
muddled  brains ;  and  that  in  yonder  head,  on  the  pillow  opposite  to 
him,  lie  a  thousand  feelings,  mysteries  of  thought,  latent  scorns 
and  rebellions,  whereof  he  only  dimly  perceives  the  existence  as 
they  look  out  furtively  from  her  eyes:  treasures  of  love  doomed  to 
perish  without  a  hand  to  gather  them ;  sweet  fancies  and  images  of 
beauty  that  would  grow  and  unfold  themselves  into  flower;  bright 
wit  that  would  shine  like  diamonds  could  it  be  brought  into  the 
sun :  and  the  tyrant  in  possession  crushes  the  outbreak  of  all  these, 
drives  them  back  like  slaves  into  the  dungeon  and  darkness,  and 
chafes  without  that  his  prisoner  is  rebellious,  and  his  sworn  subject 
undutiful  and  refractory.  So  the  lamp  was  out  in  Castlewood  Hall, 
and  the  lord  and  lady  there  saw  each  other  as  they  were.  With  her 
illness  and  altered  beauty  niy  Lord's  fire  for  liis  wife  disappeared; 
with  his  selfishness  and  faithlessness  her  fooKsh  fiction  of  love  and 


156  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

reverence  was  rent  away.  Love! — who  is  to  love  what  is  base 
and  unlovely?  Respect! — who  is  to  respect  what  is  gross  and 
sensual?  Not  all  the  marriage  oaths  sworn  before  all  the  parsons, 
cardinals,  ministers,  muftis,  and  rabbins  in  the  world,  can  bind 
to  that  monstrous  allegiance.  This  couple  was  living  apart  then: 
the  woman  happy  to  be  allowed  to  love  and  tend  her  children 
(who  were  never  of  her  own  good-will  away  from  her),  and  thank- 
ful to  have  saved  such  treasures  as  these  out  of  the  wreck  in 
which  the  better  part  of  her  heart  went  down. 

These  young  ones  had  had  no  instructors  save  their  mother,  and 
Doctor  Tusher  for  their  theology  occasionally,  and  had  made  more 
progress  than  might  have  been  expected  under  a  tutor  so  indulgent 
and  fond  as  Lady  Castlewood.  Beatrix  could  sing  and  dance  like  a 
nymph.  Her  voice  was  her  father's  delight  after  dinner.  She 
ruled  over  the  house  with  little  imperial  ways,  which  her  parents 
coaxed  and  laughed  at.  She  had  long  learned  the  value  of  her 
bright  eyes,  and  tried  experiments  in  coquetry,  in  corpore  vili, 
upon  rustics  and  country  squires,  until  she  should  prepare  to  con- 
quer the  world  and  the  fashion.  She  put  on  a  new  riband  to 
welcome  Harry  Esmond,  made  eyes  at  him,  and  directed  her  young 
smiles  at  him,  not  a  little  to  the  amusement  of  the  young  man, 
and  the  joy  of  her  father,  who  laughed  his  great  laugh,  and 
encouraged  her  in  her  thousand  antics.  Lady  Castlewood  watched 
the  child  gravely  and  sadly :  the  little  one  was  pert  in  her  replies  to 
her  mother,  yet  eager  in  her  protestations  of  love  and  promises  of 
amendment;  and  as  ready  to  cry  (after  a  little  quarrel  brought  on 
by  her  own  giddiness)  until  she  had  won  back  her  mamma's 
favour,  as  she  was  to  risk  the  kind  lady's  displeasure  by  fresh  out- 
breaks of  restless  vanity.  From  her  mother's  sad  looks  she  fled  to 
her  father's  chair  and  boozy  laughter.  She  already  set  the  one 
against  the  other:  and  the  little  rogue  delighted  in  the  mischief 
which  she  knew  how  to  make  so  early. 

The  young  heir  of  Castlewood  was  spoiled  by  father  and  mother 
both.  He  took  their  caresses  as  men  do,  and  as  if  they  were  his 
right.     He  had  his  hawks  and  his  spaniel  dog,  his  little  horse  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ES]\IOND  157 

his  beagles.  He  had  learned  to  ride,  and  to  drink,  and  to  shoot 
flying:  and  he  had  a  small  court,  the  sons  of  the  huntsman  and 
woodman,  as  became  the  heir-apparent,  taking  after  the  example 
of  my  Lord  his  father.  If  he  had  a  headache,  his  mother  was  as 
much  frightened  as  if  the  plague  were  in  the  house:  my  Lord 
laughed  and  jeered  in  his  abrupt  way — (indeed,  'twas  on  the  day 
after  New  Year's  Day,  and  an  excess  of  mince-pie) — and  said  with 

some  of  his  usual  oaths,  "D it,  Harry  Esmond — you  see  how 

my  Lady  takes  on  about  Frank's  megrim.  She  used  to  be  sorry 
about  me,  my  boy  (pass  the  tankard,  Harry),  and  to  be  frightened 
if  I  had  a  headache  once.  She  don't  care  about  my  head  now. 
They're  like  that — women  are — all  the  same,  Harry,  all  jilts  in 
their  hearts.  Stick  to  college — stick  to  punch  and  buttery  ale:  and 
never  see  a  woman  that's  handsomer  than  an  old  cinder-faced 
bedmaker.     That's  my  counsel." 

It  was  my  Lord's  custom  to  fling  out  many  jokes  of  this  nature, 
in  presence  of  his  wife  and  children,  at  meals — clumsy  sarcasms 
which  my  Lady  turned  many  a  time,  or  which,  sometimes,  she 
affected  not  to  hear,  or  which  now  and  again  would  hit  their  mark 
and  make  the  poor  victim  wince  (as  you  could  see  by  her  flushing 
face  and  eyes  filling  with  tears),  or  which  again  worked  her  up  to 
anger  and  retort,  when,  in  answer  to  one  of  these  heavy  bolts,  she 
would  flash  back  with  a  quivering  reply.  The  pair  were  not  happy ; 
nor  indeed  was  it  happy  to  be  with  them.  Alas  tliat  youthful  love 
and  truth  should  end  in  bitterness  and  bankruptcy!  To  see  a 
young  couple  loving  each  other  is  no  wonder;  but  to  see  an  old 
couple  loving  each  other  is  the  best  sight  of  all,  Harry  Esmond 
became  the  confidant  of  one  and  the  other—  that  is,  my  Lord  told 
the  lad  all  his  griefs  and  wrongs  (which  were  indeed  of  Lord  Castle- 
wood's  own  making),  and  Harry  divined  my  Lady's;  his  affection 
leading  him  easily  to  penetrate  the  hypocrisy  under  which  Lady 
Castle  wood  generally  chose  to  go  disguised,  and  see  her  heart 
aching  wdiilst  her  face  wore  a  smile.  'Tis  a  hard  task  for  women 
in  life,  that  mask  which  the  world  bids  them  wear.  But  there  is 
no  greater  crime  than  for  a  woman  who  is  ill-used  and  unhappy  to 


158  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

show  that  she  is  so.  The  world  is  quite  relentless  about  bidding 
her  to  keep  a  cheerful  face;  and  our  women,  like  the  Malabar 
wives,  are  forced  to  go  smiling  and  painted  to  sacrifice  themselves 
with  their  husbands ;  their  relations  being  the  most  eager  to  push 
them  on  to  their  duty,  and,  under  their  shouts  and  applauses,  to 
smother  and  hush  their  cries  of  pain. 

So,  into  the  sad  secret  of  his  patron's  household,  Harry  Esmond 
became  initiated,  he  scarce  knew  how.  It  had  passed  under  his 
eyes  two  years  before,  when  he  could  not  understand  it;  but  read- 
ing, and  thought,  and  experience  of  men,  had  oldened  him;  and 
one  of  the  deepest  sorrows  of  a  life  which  had  never,  in  truth,  been 
very  happy,  came  upon  him  now,  when  he  was  comj^elled  to  under- 
stand and  pity  a  grief  which  he  stood  quite  powerless  to  relieve. 

It  hath  been  said  my  Lord  would  never  take  the  oath  of  alle- 
giance, nor  his  seat  as  a  peer  of  the  kingdom  of  Ireland,  where, 
indeed,  he  had  but  a  nominal  estate ;  and  refused  an  English  peer- 
age which  King  William's  government  offered  him  as  a  bribe  to 
secure  his  loyalty. 

He  might  have  accepted  this,  and  would,  doubtless,  but  for  the 
earnest  remonstrances  of  his  wife,  who  ruled  her  husband's  opin- 
ions better  than  she  could  govern  his  conduct,  and  who,  being  a 
simple-hearted  woman,  with  but  one  rule  of  faith  and  right,  never 
thought  of  swerving  from  her  fidelity  to  the  exiled  family,  or  of 
recognising  any  other  sovereign  but  King  James;  and  though  she 
acquiesced  in  the  doctrine  of  obedience  to  the  reigning  power,  no 
temptation,  siie  thought,  could  induce  her  to  acknowledge  the 
Prince  of  Orange  as  rightful  monarch,  nor  to  let  her  lord  so 
acknowledge  him.  So  my  Lord  Castlewood  remained  a  nonjuror 
all  his  life  nearly,  though  his  self-denial  caused  him  many  a  pang, 
and  left  him  sulky  and  out  of  hunjour. 

The  year  after  the  Revolution,  and  all  through  King  "William's 
life,  'tis  known  there  were  constant  intrigues  for  the  restoration  of 
the  exiled  family;  but  if  my  Lord  Castlewood  took  any  share  of 
these,  as  is  probable,  'twas  only  for  a  short  time,  and  when  Harry 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  159 

Esmond  was  too  young  to  be  introduced  into  such  important 
secrets. 

But  in  the  year  1695,  when  that  conspiracy  of  Sir  John  Fen- 
wick,  Colonel  Lowick,  and  others,  was  set  on  foot,  for  waylaying 
King  William  as  he  came  from  Hampton  Court  to  London,  and  a 
secret  plot  was  formed,  in  which  a  vast  number  of  the  nobility 
and  people  of  honour  were  engaged.  Father  Holt  appeared  at 
Castlewood,  and  brought  a  young  friend  with  him,  a  gentleman 
whom  'twas  easy  to  see  that  both  my  Lord  and  the  Father  treated 
with  uncommon  deference.  Harry  Esmond  saw  this  gentleman, 
and  knew  and  recognised  him  in  after  life,  as  shall  be  shown  in  its 
place ;  and  he  has  little  doubt  now  that  my  Lord  Viscount  was 
implicated  somewhat  in  the  transactions  which  always  kept  Father 
Holt  emi:>loyed  and  travelling  hither  and  thither  under  a  dozen  of 
different  names  and  disguises.  The  Father's  companion  went  by 
the  name  of  Captain  James;  and  it  was  under  a  very  different 
name  and  appearance  that  Harry  Esmond  afterwards  saw  him. 

It  was  the  next  year  that  the  Fenwick  conspiracy  blew  up, 
which  is  a  matter  of  public  history  now,  and  which  ended  in  the 
execution  of  Sir  John  and  many  more,  who  suffered  manfully  for 
their  treason,  and  who  were  attended  to  Tyburn  by  my  Lady's 
father  Dean  Armstrong,  Mr.  Collier,  and  other  stout  nonjuring 
clergymen,  who  absolved  them  at  the  gallows-foot. 

'Tis  known  that  when  Sir  John  was  apprehended,  discovery  was 
made  of  a  great  number  of  names  of  gentlemen  engaged  in  the 
conspiracy;  when,  with  a  noble  wisdom  and  clemency,  the  Prince 
burned  the  list  of  conspirators  furnished  to  him,  and  said  he  would 
know  no  more.  Now  it  was  after  this  that  Lord  Castlewood  swore 
his  great  oath,  that  he  would  never,  so  help  him  Heaven,  be 
engaged  in  any  transaction  against  that  brave  and  merciful  man ; 
and  so  he  told  Holt  when  the  indefatigable  priest  visited  him,  and 
would  have  had  him  engaged  in  a  further  conspiracy.  After  this 
my  Lord  ever  spoke  of  King  William  as  he  was — as  one  of  the 
wisest,  the  bravest,  and  the  greatest  of  men.  My  Lady  Esmond 
(for  her  part)  said  she  could  never  pardon  the  King,  first,  for  oust- 


160  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

ing  his  father-in-law  from  his  throne,  and,  secondly,  for  not  being 
constant  to  his  wife,  the  Princess  Mary.  Indeed,  I  think  if  Nero 
were  to  rise  again,  and  be  King  of  England,  and  a  good  family 
man,  the  ladies  would  pardon  him.  My  Lord  laughed  at  his  wife's 
objections — the  standard  of  virtue  did  not  fit  him  much. 

The  last  conference  which  Mr.  Holt  had  with  his  Lordship  took 
place  when  Harry  was  come  home  for  his  first  vacation  from 
college  (Harry  saw  his  old  tutor  but  for  a  half -hour,  and  exchanged 
no  private  words  with  him),  and  their  talk,  whatever  it  might  be, 
left  my  Lord  Viscount  very  much  disturbed  in  mind — so  much  so 
that  his  wife,  and  his  young  kinsman,  Henry  Esmond,  could  not 
but  observe  his  disquiet.  After  Holt  was  gone,  my  Lord  rebuffed 
Esmond,  and  again  treated  him  with  the  greatest  deference;  he 
shunned  his  wife's  questions  and  company,  and  looked  at  his  chil- 
dren with  such  a  face  of  gloom  and  anxiety,  muttering,  "Poor 
children — poor  children!"  in  a  way  that  could  not  but  fill  those 
whose  life  it  was  to  watch  him  and  obey  him  with  great  alarm. 
For  which  gloom,  each  person  interested  in  the  Lord  Castlewood 
framed  in  his  or  her  own  mind  an  interpretation. 

'yiy  Lady,  with  a  laugh  of  cruel  bitterness,  said,  "I  suppose  the 
person  at  Hexton  has  been  ill,  or  has  scolded  liim"  (for  mj^  Lord's 
infatuation  about  Mrs.  Marwood  was  known  only  too  well).  Young 
Esmond  feared  for  his  money  affairs,  into  the  condition  of  which 
he  had  been  initiated ;  and  that  the  expenses,  always  greater  than 
his  revenue,  had  caused  Lord  Castlewood  disquiet. 

One  of  the  causes  win-  my  Lord  Viscount  had  taken  young 
Esmond  into  his  special  favour  was  a  trivial  one,  that  hath  not 
before  been  mentioned,  though  it  was  a  very  lucky  accident  in 
Henry  Esmond's  life.  A  very  few  months  after  mj^  Lord's  coming 
to  Castlewood,  in  the  winter  time — the  little  boy  being  a  child  in  a 
petticoat,  trotting  about — it  happened  that  little  Frank  was  with 
his  father  after  dinner,  who  fell  asleep  over  his  wine,  heedless  of 
the  child,  who  crawled  to  the  fire;  and.  as  good  fortune  would  have 
it,  Esmond  was  sent  by  bis  mistress  for  tlie  boy  just  as  the  poor 
little  screaming  urchin's  coat   was  set  on   fire   by  a  log:   when 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  161 

Esmond,  rusliing  forward,  tore  the  dress  off  the  infant,  so  that  his 
own  hands  were  burned  more  than  the  child's,  who  was  frightened 
rather  than  hurt  by  this  accident.  But  certainl}'  'twas  providen- 
tial that  a  resolute  person  should  have  come  in  at  that  instant,  or 
the  child  had  been  burned  to  death  probably,  my  Lord  sleeping 
very  heavily  after  drinking,  and  not  waking  so  cool  as  a  man 
should  who  had  a  danger  to  face. 

Ever  after  this  the  father,  loud  in  his  expressions  of  remorse 
and  humility  for  being  a  tipsy  good-for-nothing,  and  of  admiration 
for  Harry  Esmond,  whom  his  Lordship  would  style  a  hero  for  doing 
a  very  trifling  service,  had  the  tenderest  regard  for  his  son's  pre- 
server, and  Harry  became  quite  as  one  of  the  family.  His  burns 
were  tended  with  the  greatest  care  by  his  kind  mistress,  who  said 
tiiat  Heaven  had  sent  him  to  be  the  guardian  of  her  children,  and 
that  she  would  love  him  all  her  life. 

And  it  was  after  this,  and  from  the  very  great  love  and  tender- 
ness which  had  grown  up  in  this  little  household,  rather  than  from 
the  exhortations  of  Dean  Armstrong  (though  these  had  no  small 
weight  with  him),  that  Harry  came  to  be  quite  of  the  religion  of 
his  house  and  his  dear  mistress,  of  which  he  has  ever  since  been  a 
professing  member.  As  for  Doctor  Tusher's  boasts  that  he  was  the 
cause  of  this  conversion — even  in  these  young  days  Mr.  Esmond 
had  such  a  contempt  for  the  Doctor,  that  had  Tusher  bade  him 
believe  anything  (which  he  did  not— never  meddling  at  all),  Harry 
would  that  instant  have  questioned  the  truth  on't. 

My  Lady  seldom  drank  wine ;  but  on  certain  days  of  the  year, 
such  as  birthdays  (poor  Harry  had  never  a  one)  and  anniversaries, 
she  took  a  little ;  and  this  day,  the  29th  December,  was  one.  At 
the  end,  then,  of  this  year,  '96,  it  might  have  been  a  fortnight  after 
Mr.  Holt's  last  visit.  Lord  Castle  wood  being  still  very  gloomy  in 
mind,  and  sitting  at  table — my  Lady  bidding  a  servant  bring  her  a 
glass  of  wine,  and  looking  at  her  husband  with  one  of  her  sweet 
smiles,  said — 

"My  Lord,  will  you  not  fill  a  bumper  too,  and  let  me  call  a 
toasf" 


163  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

•'"WTiat  is  it,  Rachel?"  says  he,  holding  out  his  empty  glass  to  be 
ailed. 

"  'Tis  the  29th  of  December,"  says  my  Lady,  with  her  fond  look 
of  gratitude:  "and  my  toast  is,  'Harry — and  God  bless  him,  who 
saved  my  boy's  life!'  " 

My  Lord  looked  at  Harry  hard,  and  drank  the  glass,  but  clapped 
it  down  en  the  table  in  a  moment,  and,  with  a  sort  of  groan,  rose 
up,  and  went  out  of  the  room.  What  was  the  matter?  We  all 
knew  that  some  great  grief  was  over  him. 

Whether  my  Lord's  prudence  had  made  him  richer,  or  legacies 
had  fallen  to  him,  which  enabled  him  to  support  a  greater  estab- 
lishment than  that  frugal  one  which  had  been  too  much  for  his 
small  means,  Harry  Esmond  knew  not;  but  the  house  of  Castle- 
wood  was  now  on  a  scale  much  more  costly  than  it  had  been 
during  the  first  years  of  his  Lordship's  coming  to  the  title.  There 
were  more  horses  in  the  stable  and  more  servants  in  the  hall,  and 
many  more  guests  coming  and  going  now  than  formerly,  when  it 
was  found  difficult  enough  by  the  strictest  economy  to  keep  the 
house  as  befitted  one  of  his  Lordship's  rank,  and  the  estate  out  of 
debt.  And  it  did  not  require  very  much  penetration  to  find  that 
many  of  the  new  acquaintances  at  Castlewood  were  not  agreeable 
to  the  lady  there :  not  that  she  ever  treated  them  or  any  mortal  with 
anything  but  courtesy ;  but  they  were  persons  who  could  not  be 
welcome  to  her ;  and  whose  society  a  lady  so  refined  and  reserved 
could  scarce  desire  for  her  children.  There  came  fuddling  squires 
from  the  country  round,  who  bawled  their  songs  under  her 
windows  and  drank  themselves  tipsy  with  my  Lord's  punch  and 
ale :  there  came  officers  from  Hexton,  in  whose  company  our  little 
lord  was  made  to  hear  talk  and  to  drink,  and  swear  too,  in  a  way 
that  made  the  delicate  lady  tremble  for  her  son.  Esmond  tried  to 
console  her  by  saying,  what  he  knew  of  his  College  experience, 
that  with  this  sort  of  company  and  conversation  a  man  must  fall 
in  sooner  or  later  in  his  course  tlirough  the  world ;  and  it  mattered 
very  little  whether  he  heard  it  at  twv^Ive  years  old  or  twenty — the 
youths  who  quitted  mothers'  apron  strings  tlie  latest  being  not 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  1G3 

uncommonly  the  wildest  rakes.  But  it  was  about  her  daughter 
that  Lady  Castlewood  was  the  most  anxious,  and  the  danger  which 
she  thought  menaced  the  little  Beatrix  from  the  indulgences  which 
her  father  gave  lier  (it  must  be  owned  that  my  Lord,  since  these 
unhappy  domestic  differences  especially,  was  at  once  violent  in  his 
language  to  the  children  wlien  angry,  as  he  was  too  familiar,  not  to 
say  coarse,  when  he  was  in  a  good  humour),  and  from  the  company 
into  which  the  careless  lord  brought  the  child. 

Not  very  far  off  from  Castlewood  is  Sark  Castle,  where  the 
Marchioness  of  Sark  lived,  who  was  known  to  have  been  a  mistress 
of  the  late  King  Charles — and  to  this  house,  whither  indeed  a  great 
part  of  the  country  gentry  went,  my  Lord  insisted  upon  going,  not 
only  himself,  but  on  taking  his  little  daughter  and  son,  to  play  with 
the  children  there.  The  children  were  nothing  loth,  for  the  house 
was  splendid,  and  the  welcome  kind  enough.  But  my  Lady,  justly 
no  doubt,  thought  that  the  children  of  such  a  mother  as  that  noted 
Lady  Sark  had  been,  could  be  no  good  company  for  her  two ;  and 
spoke  her  mind  to  her  lord.  His  own  language  when  he  was 
thwarted  was  not  indeed  of  the  gentlest :  to  be  brief,  there  was  a 
family  dispute  on  this,  as  there  had  been  on  many  other  points — 
and  the  lady  was  not  only  forced  to  give  in,  for  the  other's  will 
was  law — nor  could  she,  on  "account  of  their  tender  age,  tell  her 
children  what  Avas  the  nature  of  her  objection  to  their  visit  of 
pleasure,  or  indeed  mention  to  them  any  objection  at  all — but  she 
had  the  additional  secret  mortification  to  find  them  returning 
delighted  with  their  new  friends,  loaded  with  presents  from  them, 
and  eager  to  be  allowed  to  go  back  to  a  place  of  such  delights  as 
Sark  Castle.  Every  year  she  thought  the  company  there  would  be 
more  dangerous  to  her  daughter,  as  from  a  child  Beatrix  grew  to  a 
woman,  and  her  daily  increasing  beauty,  and  many  faults  of  char- 
acter too,  expanded. 

It  was  Harry  Esmond's  lot  to  see  one  of  the  visits  which  the  old 
Lady  of  Sark  jDaid  to  the  lady  of  Castlewood  Hall:  whither  she 
came  in  state  with  six  chestnut  horses  and  blue  ribands,  a  page  on 
each  carriage  step,  a  gentleman  of  the  horse,  and  armed  se^-^-ants 


164  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

riding  before  and  behind  her.  And,  but  that  it  was  unpleasant  to 
see  Lady  Castlewood's  face,  it  was  amusing  to  watch  the  beliaviour 
of  the  two  enemies :  the  frigid  patience  of  the  younger  lady,  and 
the  unconquerable  good-humour  of  the  elder — who  would  see  no 
offence  whatever  her  rival  intended,  and  who  never  ceased  to  smile 
and  to  laugh,  and  to  coax  the  children,  and  to  pay  compliments  to 
every  man,  woman,  child,  nay  dog,  or  chair  and  table,  in  Castle- 
wood,  so  bent  was  she  upon  admiring  everything  there.  She 
lauded  the  children,  and  wished — as  indeed  she  well  might — that 
her  own  family  had  been  brought  up  as  well  as  those  cherubs.  She 
had  never  seen  such  a  complexion  as  dear  Beatrix's — though  to  be 
sure  she  had  a  right  to  it  from  father  and  mother — Lady  Castle- 
wood's was  indeed  a  wonder  of  freshness,  and  Lady  Sark  sighed  to 
think  she  had  not  been  born  a  fair  woman ;  and  remarking  Harry 
Esmond,  with  a  fascinating  superannuated  smile,  she  compli- 
mented him  on  his  wit,  which  she  said  she  could  see  from  his  eyes 
and  forehead ;  and  vowed  that  she  would  never  have  himi  at  Sark 
until  her  daughter  were  out  of  the  way. 


CHAPTER  Xii 

MY   LORD  MOHUN   COMES   AMONG   US   FOR   NO   GOOD 

There  had  ridden  along  with  this  old  Princess's  cavalcade  two 
gentlemen :  her  son  my  Lord  Firebrace  and  his  friend  my  Lora 
Moliun,  who  both  were  greeted  with  a  great  deal  of  cordiality  by 
the  hospitable  Lord  of  Castlewood.  My  Lord  Firebrace  was  but  a 
feeble-minded  and  weak-limbed  young  nobleman,  small  in  stature 
and  limited  in  understanding — to  judge  from  the  talk  young 
Esmond  had  with  him ;  but  the  other  was  a  person  of  a  handsome 
jDresence,  with  the  hel  ai7\  and  a  bright  daring  warlike  aspect, 
which,  according  to  the  chronicle  of  those  days,  had  already 
achieved  for  him  the  conquest  of  several  beauties  and  toasts.  He 
had  fought  and  conquered  in  France,  as  well  as  in  Flanders ;  he  had 
served  a  couple  of  campaigns  with  the  Prince  of  Baden  on  the 
Danube,  and  witnessed  the  rescue  of  Vienna  from  the  Turk.  And 
he  spoke  of  his  military  exploits  pleasantly,  and  with  the  manly 
freedom  of  a  soldier,  so  as  to  delight  all  his  hearers  at  Castlewood, 
who  were  little  accustomed  to  meet  a  companion  so  agreeable. 

On  the  first  day  this  noble  company  came,  my  Lord  would  not 
hear  of  their  departure  before  dinner,  and  carried  away  the  gentle- 
men to  amuse  them,  whilst  his  wife  was  left  to  do  the  honours  of 
her  house  to  the  old  Marchioness  and  her  daughter  within.  They 
looked  at  the  stables^  where  my  Lord  Mohun  praised  the  horses, 
though  there  was  but  a  poor  show  there:  they  walked  over  the  old 
house  and  gardens,  and  fought  the  siege  of  Oliver's  time  over 
again :  they  played  a  game  of  rackets  in  the  old  court,  where  my 
Lord  Castlewood  beat  my  Lord  Mohun,  who  said  he  loved  bail  of 
all  things,  and  would  quickly  come  back  to  Castlewood  for  his 
revenge.  After  dinner  they  played  bowls,  and  drank  punch  in  the 
green  alley;  and  wlien  they  parted  they  were  sworn  friends,  my 

165 


166  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Lord  Castlewood  kissing  the  other  lord  before  he  mounted  on  horse- 
back, and  pronouncing  him  the  best  companion  he  had  met  for 
many  a  long  day.  All  night  long,  over  his  tobacco-pipe,  Castle- 
wood  did  not  cease  to  talk  to  Harry  Esmond  in  praise  of  his  new 
friend,  and  in  fact  did  not  leave  off  speaking  of  him  until  his 
Lordship  was  so  tipsy  that  he  could  not  speak  plainly  any  more. 

At  breakfast  next  day  it  was  the  same  talk  renewed ;  and  when 
iry  Lady  said  there  was  something  free  in  the  Lord  Mohun's  looks 
and  manner  of  speech  which  caused  her  to  mistrust  him,  lier  lord 
burst  out  with  one  of  his  laughs  and  oaths;  said  that  he  never  liked 
man,  woman,  or  beast,  but  what  she  was  sure  to  be  jealous  of  it ; 
that  M'ohun  was  the  prettiest  fellow  in  England ;  that  he  hoped  to 
see  more  of  him  whilst  in  the  country;  and  that  he  would  let 
Mohun  know  what  my  Lady  Prude  said  of  him. 

"Indeed,"  Lady  Castlewood  said,  "I  liked  his  conversation  well 
enough.  'Tis  more  amusing  than  that  of  most  people  I  know.  I 
thought  it,  I  own,  too  free;  not  from  what  he  said,  as  rather  from 
what  he  implied." 

"Psha!  your  Ladyship  does  not  know  the  world,"  said  her 
husband ;  '  'and  you  have  always  been  as  squeamish  as  when  you 
were  a  miss  of  fifteen." 

"You  found  no  fault  when  I  was  a  miss  at  fifteen." 

"Begad,  madam,  you  are  grown  too  old  for  a  pinafore  now;  and 
I  hold  that  'tis  for  me  to  judge  what  company  my  wife  shall  see," 
said  my  Lord,  slapping  the  table. 

"Indeed,  Francis,  I  never  thought  otherwise,"  answered  my 
Lady,  rising  and  dropping  him  a  curtsey,  in  which  stately  action, 
if  there  was  obedience,  there  was  defiance  too;  and  in  which  a 
bystander  deeply  interested  in  the  happiness  of  that  pair  as  Harry 
Esmond  was,  might  see  how  hopelessly  separated  they  were ;  what 
a  great  gulf  of  difference  and  discord  had  run  between  them. 

"By  G— d!  Moh'jn  is  the  best  fellow  in  England;  and  I'll 
invite  him  here,  just  to  plague  that  woman.  Did  3-ou  ever  see  such 
a  frigid  insolence  as  it  is,  Harry?  That's  the  way  she  treats  me," 
he  broke  out,  storming,  and  his  face  growing  red  as  he  clenched 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  167 

his  fists  and  went  on.  "I'm  nobody  in  my  own  house.  I'm  to  be 
the  humble  servant  of  that  parson's  daughter.  By  Jove!  I'd  rather 
she  should  fling  the  dish  at  my  head  than  sneer  at  me  as  she  does. 

She  puts  me  to  shame  before  the  children  with  herd d  airii,,  and, 

I'll  swear,  tells  Frank  and  Beaty  that  papa's  a  reprobate,  and  that 
they  ought  to  despise  me." 

"Indeed  and  indeed,  sir,  I  never  heard  her  say  a  word  but  ot 
respect  regarding  you,"  Harry  Esmond  interposed. 

"No,  curse  it!  I  wish  she  would  speak.  But  she  never  does. 
She  scorns  me,  and  holds  lier  tongue.  She  keeps  off  from  me,  as  if 
I  was  a  pestilence.  By  George !  she  was  fond  enough  of  her  pesti- 
lence once.  And  when  I  came  a-courting,  you  would  see  miss 
blush — blush  red,  by  George!  for  joy.  Why,  what  do  you  think 
she  said  to  me,  Harry?    She  said  herself,  when  I  joked  with  her 

about  her  d d  smiling  red  cheeks:     ' 'Tis  as  they  do  at  Saint 

James's ;  I  put  up  my  red  flag  when  my  king  comes. '  I  was  the 
king,  you  see,  she  meant.  But  now,  sir,  look  at  her!  I  believe  she 
would  be  glad  if  I  was  dead;  and  dead  I've  been  to  her  these  five 
years — ever  since  you  all  of  you  had  the  smallpox :  and  she  never 
forgave  me  for  going  away." 

"Indeed,  my  Lord,  though  'twas  hard  to  forgive,  I  think  my 
mistress  forgave  it,"  Harry  Esmond  said;  "and  remember  how 
eagerly  she  watched  your  Lordship's  return,  and  how  sadly  she 
turned  away  when  she  saw  your  cold  looks." 

"Damme!"  cries  out  my  Lord;  "would  you  have  had  me  w^ait 
and  catch  the  smallpox?  Where  the  deuce  had  been  the  good  of 
that?  I'll  bear  danger  with  any  man — but  not  useless  danger — no, 
no.  T]\ank  you  for  nothing.  And — you  nod  your  head,  and  I  know 
very  well,  Parson  Harry,  what  you  mean.  There  was  the — the 
other  affair  to  make  her  angry.  But  is  a  woman  never  to  forgive 
a  husband  who  goes  a-tripping?     Do  you  take  me  for  a  saint?" 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  do  not,"  says  Harry,  with  a  smile. 

"Since  that  time  my  wife's  as  cold  as  the  statue  at  Charing 
Cross.  I  tell  thee  she  has  no  forgiveness  in  her,  Henry.  Her  cold- 
ness blights  my  whole  life,  and  sends  me  to  the  punch-bowl,  or 


168  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

driving  about  the  country.  My  children  are  not  mine,  but  hers, 
when  we  are  together.  *Tis  only  when  she  is  out  of  sight  with  her 
abominable  cold  glances,  that  run  through  me,  that  they'll  come  to 
me,  and  that  I  dare  to  give  them  so  much  as  a  kiss;  and  that's  why 
I  take  'em  and  love  'em  in  other  people's  houses,  Harry.  I'm  killed 
by  the  very  virtue  of  that  proud  woman.  Virtue!  give  mo  the 
virtue  that  can  forgive;  give  me  the  virtue  that  thinks  not  of  pre- 
serving itself,  but  of  making  other  folks  happy.  Damme,  what 
matters  a  scar  or  two  if  'tis  got  in  helping  a  friend  in  ill  fortune?" 

And  my  Lord  again  slapped  the  table,  and  took  a  great  drauglit 
from  the  tankard.  Harry  Esmond  admired  as  he  listened  to  him, 
and  thought  how  the  poor  preacher  of  this  self-sacrifice  had  fled 
from  the  smallpox,  which  the  lady  had  borne  so  cheerfully,  and 
which  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much  disunion  in  the  lives  of  all  in 
this  house.  "How  well  men  preach,''  thought  the  young  man, 
"and  each  is  the  example  in  his  own  sermon!  How  each  has  a 
story  in  a  dispute,  and  a  true  one,  too,  and  both  are  right  or  wrong 
as  you  will."  Harry's  heart  was  pained  within  him,  to  watch  the 
struggles  and  pangs  that  tore  the  breast  of  this  kind,  manly  friend 
and  protector. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  he,  "I  wish  to  God  that  my  mistress  could 
hear  you  s^Deak  as  I  have  heard  you,  she  would  know  much  that 
would  make  her  life  the  happier,  could  she  hear  it."  But  mj"  Lord 
flung  away  with  one  of  his  oaths,  and  a  jeer;  he  said  that  Parson 
Harry  was  a  good  fellow;  but  that  as  for  women,  all  women  were 
alike — all  jades  and  heartless.  So  a  man  dashes  a  fine  vase  down, 
and  despises  it  for  being  broken.  It  may  be  worthless — true:  but 
who  had  the  keeping  of  it,  and  who  shattered  it? 

Harry,  who  would  have  given  his  life  to  make  his  benefactress 
and  her  husband  happj^  bethought  him,  now  that  he  saw  what  my 
Lord's  state  of  mind  was,  and  that  he  really  had  a  great  deal  of 
that  love  left  in  his  heart,  and  rea  "ly  for  his  wife's  acceptance  if 
she  would  take  it,  whether  he  could  not  be  a  means  of  reconcilia- 
tion between  these  two  persons,  whom  he  revered  the  most  in  the 
world.     And  he  cast  about  how  he  should  break  a  part  of  his  niind 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  169 

to  his  mistress,  and  warn  her  that  in  his,  Harry's  opinion,  at  least, 
her  husband  was  still  her  admirer,  and  even  her  lover. 

But  he  found  the  subject  a  very  difficult  one  to  handle,  when  he 
ventured  to  remonstrate,  which  he  did  in  the  very  gravest  tone  (for 
long  confidence  and  reiterated  proofs  of  devotion  and  loyalty  had 
given  him  a  sort  of  authority  in  the  house,  which  he  resumed  as 
soon  as  ever  he  returned  to  it),  and  with  a  speech  that  sliould  liavj 
some  effect,  as,  indeed,  it  was  uttered  with  the  speaker's  own 
heart,  he  ventured  most  gently  to  hint  to  his  adored  mistress  that 
she  was  doing  her  husband  harm  by  her  ill  opinion  of  him,  and 
that  the  happiness  of  all  the  family  depended  upon  setting  her 
right. 

She,  who  was  ordinarily  calm  and  most  gentle,  and  full  of 
smiles  and  soft  attentions,  flushed  up  when  young  Esmond  so  spoke 
to  her,  and  rose  from  her  chair,  looking  at  him  with  a  haughtiness 
and  indignation  that  he  had  never  before  known  her  to  disi3lay. 
She  was  quite  an  altered  being  for  that  moment ;  and  looked  an 
angry  princess  insulted  by  a  vassal. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  me  utter  a  word  in  my  Lord's  disparage- 
ment?" she  asked  hastily,  hissing  out  her  words,  and  stamping  her 
foot. 

"Indeed,  no,"  Esmond  said,  looking  down. 

"Are  you  come  to  me  as  his  ambassador — you?"'  she  continued. 

"I  would  sooner  see  peace  between  you  than  anything  else  in 
the  world,"  Harry  answered,  "and  would  go  of  any  embassy  that 
had  that  end." 

"So  you  are  my  Lord's  go-between?"  she  went  on,  not  regarding 
this  speech.  "You  are  sent  to  bid  me  back  into  slavery  again,  and 
inform  me  that  my  Lord's  favour  is  graciously  restored  to  his  hand- 
maid? He  is  weary  of  Covent  Garden,  is  he,  that  he  comes  home 
[and  would  have  the  fatted  calf  killed?" 

"There's  good  authority  for  it  surely,"  said  Esmond. 

"For  a  son,  yes;  but  my  Lord  is  not  my  son.  It  was  he  who 
cast  me  away  from  him.  It  was  he  who  broke  our  happiness  down, 
and  he  bids  me  to  repair  it.     It  was  he  who  showed  himself  to  me 


170  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

at  last,  as  he  was,  not  as  I  had  thought  him.  It  is  he  who  comes 
before  my  children  stupid  and  senseless  with  wine — who  leaves  our 
company  for  that  of  frequenters  of  taverns  and  bagnios — who  goes 
from  his  home  to  the  city  yonder  and  his  friends  there,  and  when 
he  is  tired  of  them  returns  hither,  and  expects  that  I  shall  kneel 
and  welcome  him.  And  he  sends  you  as  his  chamberlain!  Y\"hat  a 
proud  embassy !  Monsieur,  I  make  you  my  compliment  of  the  new 
place." 

"It  would  be  a  proud  embassy,  and  a  happy  embassy  too,  could 
I  bring  you  and  my  Lord  together,"  Esmond  replied. 

"I  presume  you  have  fulfilled  your  mission  now,  sir.  'Twas  a 
pretty  one  for  you  to  undertake.  I  don't  know  whetlier  'tis  your 
Cambridge  philosophy,  or  time,  that  has  altered  your  ways  of 
thinking,"  Lady  Castlewood  continued,  still  in  a  sarcastic  tone. 
''Perhaps  you  too  have  learned  to  love  drink,  and  to  hiccup  over 
3'our  wine  or  punch; — which  is  your  worship's  favourite  liquor? 
Perhaps  you  too  put  up  at  the  'Rose'  on  your  way  to  London,  and 
have  your  acquaintances  in  Covent  Garden.  My  services  to  you,  sir, 
to  principal  and  ambassador,  to  master  and — and  lacquey." 

"Great  heavens!  madam,"  cried  Harry,  "what  have  I  done  that 
thus,  for  a  second  time,  you  insult  me?  Do  you  wish  me  to  blush 
for  what  I  used  to  be  proud  of,  that  I  lived  on  your  bounty?  Next 
to  doing  you  a  service  (which  my  life  would  pay  for),  you  know 
that  to  receive  one  from  you  is  my  highest  pleasure.  What  wrong 
have  I  done  you  that  you  should  wound  me  so,  cruel  woman?" 

"What  wrong!"  she  said,  looking  at  Esmond  with  wild  eyes. 
"Well,  none — none  that  you  know  of,  Harry,  or  could  help.  Why 
did  you  bring  back  the  smallpox,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "from 
Castlewood  village?  You  could  not  help  it,  could  you?  Which  of 
us  knows  whither  fate  leads  us?  But  we  were  all  happy,  Henry, 
till  then."  And  Harry  went  away  from  this  colloquy,  thinking 
still  that  the  estrangement  between  his  patron  and  his  beloved 
mistress  was  remediable,  and  that  each  had  at  heart  a  strong 
attachment  to  the  other. 

The    intimacy  between    the    Lords    Moliun    and    Castlewood 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  171 

appeared  to  increase  as  long  as  the  former  remained  in  the  country; 
and  my  Lord  of  Castlewood  especially  seemed  never  to  be  happy 
out  of  his  new  comrade's  sight.  They  sported  together,  they 
drank,  they  played  bowls  and  tennis:  my  Lord  Castlewood  would 
go  for  three  days  to  Sark,  and  bring  back  my  Lord  Mohun  to 
Castlewood— where  indeed  his  Lordship  made  himself  very  wel- 
come to  all  persons,  having  a  joke  or  a  new  game  at  romps  for  the 
children,  all  the  talk  of  the  town  for  my  Lord,  and  music  and 
gallantry  and  plenty  of  the  beau  langage  for  my  Lady,  and  for 
Harry  Esmond,  who  was  never  tired  of  hearing  his  stories  of  his 
campaigns  and  his  life  at  Vienna,  Venice,  Paris,  and  the  famous- 
cities  of  Europe  which  he  had  visited  both  in  peace  and  war.  And 
he  sang  at  my  Lady's  harpsichord,  and  played  cards  or  backgam- 
mon, or  his  new  game  of  billiards  with  my  Lord  (of  whom  he 
invariably  got  the  better) ;  always  having  a  consummate  good- 
humour,  and  bearing  himself  with  a  certain  manly  grace,  that 
mi';^ht  exhibit  somewhat  of  the  camp  and  Alsatia  perhaps,  but  that 
had  its  charm,  and  stamped  him  a  gentleman :  and  his  manner  ta 
Lady  Castlewood  was  so  devoted  and  respectful,  that  she  soon 
recovered  from  the  first  feelings  of  dislike  which  she  had  conceived 
against  him — nay,  before  long,  began  to  be  interested  in  his  spir- 
itual welfare,  and  hopeful  of  his  conversion,  lending  him  books  of 
piety,  which  he  promised  dutifully  to  study.  With  her  my  Lord 
talked  of  reform,  of  settling  into  quiet  life,  quitting  the  court  and 
town,  and  buying  some  land  in  the  neighbourhood — though  it  must 
be  owned  that,  when  the  two  lords  were  together  over  their  bur- 
gundy after  dinner,  their  talk  was  very  different,  and  there  was 
very  little  question  of  conversion  on  my  Lord  IMohun's  j^art.  When 
they  got  to  their  second  bottle,  Harry  Esmond  used  commonly  to 
leave  these  two  noble  topers,  who,  though  they  talked  freely 
enough,  Heaven  knows,  in  his  presence  (Good  Lord,  what  a  set  of 
stories,  of  Alsatia  and  Spring  Garden,  of  the  taverns  and  gaming- 
houses, of  the  ladies  of  the  Court,  and  mesdames  of  the  theatres, 
he  can  recall  out  of  their  godly  conversation!)— although,  I  say, 
they  talked  before  Esmond  freely,  yet  they  seemed  pleased  when  he 


172  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

went  away,  and  then  they  had  another  bottle,  and  then  they  fell 
to  cards,  and  then  my  Lord  Mohun  came  to  her  Ladyship's  draw- 
ing-room ;  leaving  his  boon  companion  to  sleep  off  his  wine. 

'Twas  a  point  of  honour  with  the  fine  gentlemen  of  those  days 
to  lose  or  win  magnificently  at  tlieir  horse-matches,  or  games  of 
■cards  and  dice — and  you  could  never  tell,  from  the  demeanour  of 
these  two  lords  afterwards,  which  had  been  successful  and  which 
the  loser  at  their  games.  And  when  my  Lady  hinted  to  my  Lord 
that  he  played  more  than  she  liked,  he  dismissed  her  with  a 
*'pish,"  and  swore  that  nothing  was  more  equal  than  play  betwixt 
gentlemen,  if  they  did  but  keep  it  up  long  enough.  And  these  kept 
it  up  long  enough,  you  may  be  sure.  A  man  of  fashion  of  that  time 
often  passed  a  quarter  of  his  day  at  cards,  and  another  quarter  at 
drink:  I  have  known  many  a  pretty  fellow,  who  was  a  wit,  too, 
ready  of  repartee,  and  possessed  of  a  thousand  graces,  who  would 
be  puzzled  if  he  had  to  write  more  than  his  name. 

There  is  scarce  any  thoughtful  man  or  woman,  1  suppose,  but 
can  look  back  upon  his  course  of  past  life,  and  remember  some 
I>oint,  trifling  as  it  may  have  seemed  at  the  time  of  occurrence, 
which  has  nevertheless  turned  and  altered  his  whole  career.  'Tis 
with  almost  all  of  us,  as  in  M.  Massillon's  magnificent  image 
regarding  King  William,  a  grain  de  sable  that  perverts  or  perhaps 
overthrows  us;  and  so  it  was  but  a  light  word  flung  in  the  air,  a 
mere  freak  of  perverse  child's  temper,  that  brought  down  a  whole 
heap  of  crushing  woes  upon  chuL  family  whereof  Harry  Esmond 
formed  a  part. 

Coming  home  to  his  dear  Castle  wood  in  the  third  year  of  his 
academical  course  (wherein  he  had  now  obtained  some  distinction, 
his  Latin  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  Princess 
Anne  of  Denmark's  son,  having  gained  him  a  medal,  and  intro- 
duced him  to  the  society  of  the  University  wits),  Esmond  ^found 
his  little  friend  and  pupil  Beatrix  grown  to  be  taller  than  her 
mother,  a  slim  and  lovely  young  girl,  with  cheeks  mantling  with 
health  and  roses:  with  eyes  like  stars  shining  out  of  azure,  with 
waving  bronze  hair  clustered  about  the  fairest  young  forehead  ever 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  173 

seen:  and  a  mien  and  shape  haughty  and  beautiful,  such  as  that  of 
the  famous  antique  statue  of  the  huntress  Diana — at  one  time 
haughty,  rapid,  imperious,  with  eyes  and  arrows  that  dart  and  kill. 
Harry  watched  and  wondered  at  this  young  creature,  and  likened 
her  in  his  mind  to  Artemis  with  the  ringing  bow  and  shafts  flash- 
ing death  upon  the  children  of  Niobe;  at  another  time  she  was  coy 
and  melting  as  Luna  shining  tenderly  upon  Endymion.  This  fair 
creature,  this  lustrous  Phoebe,  was  only  3'oung  as  yet,  nor  had 
nearly  reached  her  full  splendour:  but  crescent  and  brilliant,  our 
young  gentleman  of  the  University,  his  head  full  of  poetical  fan- 
cies, his  heart  perhaps  throbbing  with  desires  undefined,  admired 
this  rising  young  divinitj^;  and  gazed  at  her  (though  only  as  at 
some  "bright  particular  star,"  far  above  his  earth)  with  endless 
delight  and  wonder.  She  had  been  a  coquette  from  the  earliest 
times  almost,  trj-ing  her  freaks  and  jealousies,  her  wayward  frolics 
and  winning  caresses,  upon  all  that  came  within  her  reach;  she 
set  her  women  quarrelling  in  the  nursery,  and  practised  her  eyes 
on  the  groom  as  she  rode  behind  him  on  the  pillion. 

She  was  the  darling  and  torment  of  father  and  mother.  She 
intrigued  with  each  secretly ;  and  bestowed  her  fondness  and  with- 
drew it,  plied  them  with  tears,  smiles,  kisses,  cajolements; — when 
the  mother  was  angry,  as  happened  often,  flew  to  the  father,  and 
sheltering  behind  him,  pursued  her  victim;  when  both  were  dis- 
pleased, transferred  her  caresses  to  the  domestics,  or  watched  until 
she  could  win  back  her  parents'  good  graces,  either  by  surprising 
them  into  laughter  and  good-humour,  or  appeasing  them  by  sub- 
mission and  artful  humility.  She  was  scevo  Iceta  negotio,  like  that 
fickle  goddess  Horace  describes,  and  of  whose  "malicious  joy"  a 
great  poet  of  our  own  has  written  so  nobly — who,  famous  and 
heroic  as  he  was,  was  not  strong  enough  to  resist  the  torture  of 
women. 

It  was  but  three  years  before  that  the  child,  then  but  ten  years 
old,  had  nearly  managed  to  make  a  quarrel  between  Harry  Esmond 
and  his  comrade,  good-natured,  phlegmatic  Thomas  Tusher,  who 
never  of  his  own  seeking  quarrelled  with  anybody:  by  quoting  to 


174  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

the  latter  some  silly  joke  which  Harry  had  made  regarding  him — 
(it  was  the  merest  idlest  jest,  though  it  near  drove  two  old  friends 
to  blows,  and  I  think  such  a  battle  would  have  pleased  her) — and 
from  that  day  Tom  kept  at  a  distance  from  her;  and  she  respected 
him,  and  coaxed  him  sedulously  whenever  the}^  met.  But  Harry 
was  much  more  easily  appeased,  because, he  was  fonder  of  the 
child:  and  when  she  made  mischief,  used  cutting  speeches,  or 
caused  her  friends  pain,  she  excused  herself  for  her  fault  not  by 
admitting  and  deploring  it,  but  by  pleading  not  guilty,  and  assert- 
ing innocence  so  constantly  and  with  such  seeming  artlessness, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  question  her  plea.  In  her  childhood,  they 
were  but  mischiefs  then  which  she  did;  but  her  power  became 
more  fatal  as  she  grew  older — as  a  kitten  first  plays  with  a  ball,  and 
then  pounces  on  a  bird  and  kills  it.  'Tis  not  to  be  imagined  that 
Harry  Esmond  had  all  this  experience  at  this  early  stage  of  his  life, 
whereof  he  is  now  writing  the  history— many  things  here  noted 
were  but  known  to  him  in  later  days.  Almost  everything  Beatrix 
did  or  undid  seemed  good,  or  at  least  pardonable,  to  him  then,  and 
years  afterwards. 

It  happened,  then,  that  Harry  Esmond  came  home  to  Castle- 
wood  for  his  last  vacation,  with  good  hopes  of  a  fellowship  at  his 
College,  and  a  contented  resolve  to  advance  his  fortune  that  way. 
*Twas  in  the  first  year  of  the  present  century,  Mr.  Esmond  (as  f^r 
as  he  knew  the  period  of  his  birth)  being  then  twenty -two  years 
old.  He  found  his  quondam  pupil  shot  up  into  this  beauty  of 
which  we  have  spoken,  and  promising  yet  more:  her  brother,  my 
Lord's  son,  a  handsome,  high-spirited,  brave  lad,  generous  and 
frank,  and  kind  to  everybody,  save  perhaps  his  sister,  with  whom 
Frank  vvas  at  war  (and  not  from  his  but  her  fault)— adoring  his 
mother,  whose  joy  he  was:  and  taking  her  side  in  the  unhappy 
matrimonial  differences  which  were  now  permanent,  while  of 
course  Mistress  Beatrix  ranged  with  her  father.  When  heads  of 
families  fall  out,  it  must  naturally  be  that  their  dependants  wear 
the  one  or  the  other  party's  colour;  and  even  in  the  parliaments  in 
the  servants'  hall  or  the  stables,  Harry,  who  had  an  early  observant 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  175 

turn,  could  see  which  were  my  Lord's  adherents  and  which  my 
Lady's,  and  conjecture  pretty  shrewdly  how  their  unlucky  quarrel 
was  debated.  Our  lacqueys  sit  in  judgment  on  us.  My  Lord's 
intrigues  may  be  ever  so  stealthily  conducted,  but  his  valet  knows 
them;  and  my  Lady's  woman  carries  her  mistress's  private  history 
to  the  servants'  scandal-market,  and  exchanges  it  against  the 
secrets  of  other  abigails. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MY  LORD  LEAVES   US   AND   HIS   EVIL   BEHIND   HIM 

My  Lord  Mohun  (of  whose  exploits  and  fame  some  of  the  gentle- 
men of  the  University  had  brought  down  but  ugly  reports)  was 
once  more  a  guest  at  Castlewood,  and  seemingly  more  intimately 
allied  with  my  Lord  even  than  before.  Once  in  the  spring  those 
two  noblemen  had  ridden  to  Cambridge  from  Newmarket,  whither 
they  had  gone  for  the  horse-racing,  and  had  honoured  Harry 
Esmond  with  a  visit  at  his  rooms ;  after  which  Doctor  Montague, 
the  Master  of  the  College,  who  had  treated  Harry  somewhat 
haughtily,  seeing  his  familiarity  with  these  great  folks,  and  that 
my  Lord  Castlewood  laughed  and  walked  with  his  hand  on  Harry's 
shoulder,  relented  to  Mr.  Esmond,  and  condescended  to  be  very 
civil  to  him ;  and  some  days  after  his  arrival.  Harry,  laughing,  told 
this  story  to  Lady  Esmond,  remarking  how  strange  it  was  that  men 
famous  for  learning  and  renowned  over  Europe,  should,  neverthe- 
less, so  bow  down  to  a  title,  and  cringe  to  a  nobleman  ever  so  poor 
At  this  Mistress  Beatrix  fxung  up  her  head,  and  said  it  became  those 
of  low  origin  to  respect  their  betters;  that  the  parsons  made  them- 
selves a  great  deal  too  proud,  she  thought;  and  that  she  liked  the 
way  at  Lady  Sark's  be&t,  where  the  chaplain,  though  he  loved  pud- 
ding, as  all  parsons  do,  always  went  away  before  the  custard. 

"And  when  I  am  a  parson,*'  says  Mr.  Esmond,  "will  you  give 
me  no  custard,  Beatrix?'' 

"You — you  are  different,''  Beatrix  answered.  "You  are  of  our 
blood." 

"My  father  Avas  a  parson,  as  you  call  him,"  said  my  Lady. 

"But  mine  is  a  peer  of  Ireland,"  says  Mistress  Beatrix,  tossing 
her  head.  "Let  people  know  their  places.  I  suppo.se  you  will  have 
me  go  down  on  my  knees  and  ask  a  blessing  of  Mr.  Thomas  Tusher, 

170 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  177 

that  lias  just  been  made  a  curate,  and  whose  mother  was  a  waiting- 
maid.  ' ' 

And  she  tossed  out  of  the  room,  being  in  one  of  her  flighty 
humours  then. 

When  she  was  gone  my  Lady  looked  so  sad  and  grave,  that 
Harry  asked  the  cause  of  her  disquietude.  She  said  it  was  not 
merely  what  he  said  of  Newmarket,  but  what  she  had  remarked, 
with  great  anxiety  and  terror,  that  my  Lord,  ever  since  his 
acquaintance  with  the  Lord  Mohun  especially,  had  recurred  to  his 
fondness  for  play,  which  he  had  renounced  since  his  marriage. 

''But  men  promise  more  than  they  are  able  to  perform  in  mar- 
riage," said  my  Lady  with  a  sigh.  "I  fear  he  has  lost  large  sums; 
and  our  property,  always  small,  is  dwindling  away  under  this  reck- 
less dissipation.  I  heard  of  him  in  London  with  very  wild  com- 
pany. Since  his  return  letters  and  lawyers  are  constantly  coming 
and  going:  he  seems  to  me  to  have  a  constant  anxiety,  though  he 
hides  it  under  boisterousness  and  laughter.  I  looked  through — 
through  the  door  last  night,  and— and  before,"  said  my  Lady,  "and 
saw  them  at  cards  after  midnight;  no  estate  will  bear  that  extrav- 
agance, much  less  ours,  which  will  be  so  diminished  that  my  son 
will  have  nothing  at  all,  and  my  poor  Beatrix  no  portion!" 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you,  madam,"  said  Harry  Esmond,  sighing, 
and  wishing  that  unavailingly,  and  for  the  thousandth  time  in  his 
life. 

"Who  can?  Only  God,"  said  Lady  Esmond— "only  God,  in 
whose  hands  we  are."  And  so  it  is,  and  for  his  rule  over  his  fam- 
ily, and  for  his  conduct  to  wife  and  children — subjects  over  whom 
his  power  is  monarchical— any  one  who  watches  the  world  must 
think  with  trembling  sometimes  of  the  account  which  many  a  mah. 
will  have  to  render.  For  in  our  society  there's  no  law  to  control 
the  King  of  the  Fireside.  He  is  master  of  property,  haj'jpiness — life 
almost.  He  is  free  to  jiunish,  to  make  happy  or  unhappy — to  ruin 
or  to  torture.  He  may  kill  a  wife  gradually,  and  be  no  more  ques- 
tioned than  the  Grand  Seignior  who  drowns  a  slave  at  midnight. 
He  may  make  slaves  and  hypocrites  of  his  children ;  or  friends  and 


178  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

freemen ;  or  drive  them  into  revolt  and  enmity  against  the  natural 
law  of  love.  I  have  heard  politicians  and  coffee-house  wiseacres 
talking  over  the  newspaper,  and  railing  at  the  tyranny  of  the 
French  King,  and  the  Emperor,  and  wondered  how  these  (who  are 
monarchs,  too,  in  their  way)  govern  their  own  dominions  at  home, 
where  each  man  rules  absolute.  When  the  annals  of  each  little 
reign  are  shown  to  the  Supreme  Master,  under  whom  we  hold  sov- 
ereignty, histories  will  be  laid  bare  of  household  tyrants  as  cruel  as 
Amurath,  and  as  savage  as  Nero,  and  as  reckless  and  dissolute  as 
Charles. 

If  Harry  Esmond's  patron  erred,  "twas  in  the  latter  way,  from 
a  disposition  rather  self-indulgent  than  cruel ;  and  he  might  have 
been  brought  back  to  much  better  feelings,  had  time  been  given  to 
him  to  bring  his  repentance  to  a  lasting  reform. 

As  my  liOrd  and  his  friend  Lord  Mohun  were  such  close  com- 
panions, Mistress  Beatrix  chose  to  be  jealous  of  the  latter ;  and  the 
two  gentlemen  often  entertained  each  other  by  laughing,  in  their 
rude  boisterous  way,  at  the  child's  freaks  of  anger  and  show  of  dis- 
like. ''When  thou  art  old  enough,  thou  shalt  marry  Lord  Mohun," 
Beatrix's  father  would  say :  on  which  the  girl  would  pout  and  say. 
"I  would  rather  marry  Tom  Tusher."  And  because  the  Lord 
Mohun  always  showed  an  extreme  gallantry  to  my  Lady  Castle- 
wood,  whom  he  professed  to  admire  devotedly,  one  da}^  in  answer 
to  this  old  joke  of  her  father's,  Beatrix  said,  "I  think  my  Lord 
would  rather  marry  mamma  than  marry  me;  and  is  waiting  till 
you  die  to  ask  her." 

The  words  were  said  lightly  and  pertly  by  the  girl  one  night 
before  supper,  as  the  family  party  were  assembled  near  the  great 
fire.  The  two  lords,  who  were  at  cards,  both  gave  a  start;  my 
Lady  turned  as  red  as  scarlet,  and  bade  Mistress  Beatrix  go  to  her 
own  chamber;  whereupon  the  girl,  putting  on,  as  her  wont  was, 
the  most  innocent  air,  said,  "I  am  sure  I  meant  no  wrong;  I  am 
sure  mamma  talks  a  great  deal  more  to  Harry  Esmond  than  she 
does  to  papa — and  she  cried  when  Harry  went  away,  and  she  never 
does  when  papa  goes  awaj^ !     And  last  night  she  talked  to  Lord 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  179 

Mohun  for  ever  so  long,  and  sent  us  out  of  the  room,  and  cried 
when  we  came  back,  and '' 

"D n!"  cried  out  my  Lord  Castlewood,  out  of  all  patience. 

"Go  out  of  the  room,  you  little  viper  !"_and  he  started  up  and  flung 
down  his  cards. 

"Ask  Lord  Mohun  what  I  said  to  him,  Francis,"'  her  Ladyship 
said,  rising  up  with  a  scared  face,  but  yet  with  a  great  and  touch- 
ing dignity  and  candour  in  her  look  and  voice.  "Come  away  with 
me,  Beatrix."     Beatrix  sprang  up  too;  she  was  in  tears  now. 

"Dearest  mamma,  what  have  I  done?"  she  asked.  "Sure  I 
meant  no  harm.''  And  she  clung  to  her  mother,  and  the  pair  went 
out  sobbing  together. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  your  wife  said  to  me,  Frank,"  my  Lord 
Mohun  cried.  "Parson  Harry  may  hear  it;  and,  as  I  hope  for 
heaven,  every  word  I  say  is  true.  Last  night,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  your  wife  implored  me  to  play  no  more  with  you  at  dice  or  at 
cards,  and  you  know  best  whether  what  she  asked  was  not  for  your 
good." 

"Of  course  it  was,  Mohun,"  says  my  Lord  in  a  dry  hard  voice. 
"Of  course  you  are  a  model  of  a  man:  and  the  world  knows  what 
a  saint  you  are." 

My  Lord  Mohun  was  separated  from  his  wife,  and  had  had 
many  affairs  of  honour :  of  which  women  as  usual  had  been  the 
cause. 

"I  am  no  saint,  though  your  wife  is — and  I  can  answer  for  my 
actions  as  other  people  must  for  their  words,"  said  my  Lord 
Mohun. 

"By  G— ,  my  Lord,  you  shall,"  cried  the  other,  starting  up. 

""We  have  another  little  account  to  settle  first,  my  Lord,"  says 
Lord  Mohun.  Whereupon  Harry  Esmond,  filled  with  alarm  for  the 
consequences  to  which  this  disastrous  disjiute  might  lead,  broke 
out  into  the  most  vehement  expostulations  with  his  patron  and  his 
adversary.  "Gracious  heavens  1"  he  said,  "my  Lord,  are  you  going 
to  draw  a  sword  upon  your  friend  in  your  own  house?  Can  you 
doubt  the  honour  of  a  lady  who  is  as  pure  as  heaven,  and  would 


180  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

die  a  thousand  times  rather  than  do  you  a  wrong?  Are  the  idle 
words  of  a  jealous  child  to  set  friends  at  variance?  Has  not  my 
mistress,  as  much  as  she  dared  do,  besought  3-our  Lordship,  as  the 
truth  must  be  told,  to  break  your  intimacy  with  my  Lord  Mohun; 
and  to  give  up  the  habit  which  may  bring  ruin  on  your  family? 
But  for  my  Lord  Mohun's  illness,  had  he  not  left  you?'' 

'*  'Faith,  Frank,  a  man  with  a  gouty  toe  can't  run  after  other 
men's  wives,"  broke  out  my  Lord  Mohun,  who  indeed  was  in  that 
way,  and  with  a  laugh  and  a  look  at  his  swathed  limb  so  frank  and 
comical,  that  the  other,  dashing  his  fist  across  his  forehead,  was 
caught- bj'  that  infectious  good-humour,  and  said  with  his  oath, 

"D it,  Harry,  I  believe  thee,"  and  so  this  quarrel  was  over,  and 

the  two  gentlemen,  at  swords  drawn  but  just  now,  dropped  their 
points,  and  shook  hands. 

Bcati pacifici.  **Go  bring  my  Lady  back,"'  said  Harry's  patron. 
Esmond  went  away  only  too  glad  to  be  the  bearer  of  such  good 
news.  He  found  her  at  the  door;  she  had  been  listening  there,  but 
went  back  as  he  came.  She  took  both  his  hands ;  hers  were  marble 
cold.  She  seemed  as  if  she  would  fall  on  his  shoulder,  "Tliank 
you,  and  God  bless  you,  my  dear  brother  Harry,"  she  said.  She 
kissed  his  hand,  Esmond  felt  her  tears  upon  it:  and  leading  her  into 
the  room,  and  up  to  my  Lord,  the  Lord  Castlewood,  with  an  out- 
break of  feeling  and  affection  such  as  he  had  not  exhibited  for 
many  a  long  day,  took  his  wife  to  his  heart,  and  bent  over  and 
kissed  her  and  asked  her  pardon. 

"  'Tis  time  for  me  to  go  to  roost.  I  will  have  mj'  gruel  a-bed," 
said  my  Lord  Mohun:  and  limped  off  comically  on  Harry  Esmond's 
arm.  "By  George,  that  woman  is  a  pearl!""  he  said;  "and  "tis  only 
a  pig  that  wouldn't  value  her.  Have  you  seen  the  vulgar,  trapesing 
orange-girl  whom  Esmond"— but  here  Mr.  Esmond  interrupted 
him,  saying,  that  these  were  not  affairs  for  him  to  knew. 

My  Lord's  gentleman  came  in  to  wait  upon  his  master,  who  was 
no  sooner  in  his  nightcap  and  dressing-gown  than  he  had  another 
visitor  whom  his  host  insisted  on  sending  to  him :  and  this  was  no 
other  than  the  Lady  Castlewood  herself  with  the  toast  and  gruel, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  181 

which  her  husband]  bade  her  make  and  carry  with  her  own  hands 
in  to  her  guest. 

Lord  Castlewood  stood  looking  after  his  wife  as  she  went  on  this 
errand,  and  as  he  looked,  Harry  Esmond  could  not  but  gaze  on 
him,  and  remarked  in  his  patron's  face  an  expression  of  love,  and 
grief,  and  care,  which  very  much  moved  and  touched  the  young 
man.  Lord  Castlewood's  hands  fell  down  at  his  sides,  and  his  head 
on  his  breast,  and  presently  he  said — 

"You  heard  what  Mohun  said,  Parsonf 

"That  my  Lady  was  a  saint?" 

"That  there  are  two  accounts  to  settle.  I  have  been  going 
wrong  these  five  years,  Harry  Esmond.  Ever  since  you  brought 
that  damned  smallpox  into  the  house,  there  has  been  a  fate  pursu- 
ing me,  and  I  had  best  have  died  of  it  and  not  run  away  from  it 
like  a  coward.  I  left  Beatrix  with  her  relations,  and  went  to  Lon- 
don ;  and  I  fell  among  thieves,  Harry,  and  I  got  back  to  confounded 
cards  and  dice,  which  I  hadn't  touched  since  my  marriage — no,  not 
since  I  was  in  the  Duke's  Guard,  M-ith  those  wild  Mohocks.  And  I 
have  been  playing  worse  and  worse,  and  going  deeper  and  deeper 
into  it;  and  I  owe  Mohun  two  thousand  pounds  now;  and  w^hen  it's 
paid  I  am  little  better  than  a  beggar.  I  don't  like  to  look  my  boy 
in  the  face:  he  hates  me,  I  know  he  does.  And  I  have  spent 
Beaty's  little  portion:  and  the  Lord  knows  what  will  come  if  I  live. 
The  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  die,  and  release  what  portion  of  the 
estate  is  redeemable  for  the  boy." 

3Ioliun  was  as  much  master  at  Castlewood  as  the  ow-ner  of  the 
Hall  itself;  and  his  equipages  filled  the  stables,  where,  indeed,  there 
was  room  in  plenty  for  many  more  horses  than  Harry  Esmond's 
impoverished  patron  could  afford  to  keep.  He  had  arrived  on 
horselxick  with  his  peojile;  but  when  his  gout  broke  out  my  Lord 
Molmn  sent  to  London  for  a  light  chaise  he  had,  drawn  by  a  pair  of 
small  horses,  and  running  as  swift,  wherever  roads  were  good,  as  a 
Laplander's  sledge.  When  this  carriage  came,  his  Lordship  was 
eager  to  drive  the  Lady  Castlewood  abroad  in  it,  and  did  so  many 
times,  and  at  a  rapid  pace,  greatly  to  his  companion's  enjoyment. 


183  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

who  loved  the  swift  motion  and  the  healthy  breezes  over  the  downs 
which  lie  hard  upon  Castlewood,  and  stretch  thence  towards  the 
sea.  As  this  amusement  was  very  pleasant  to  her,  and  her  lord, 
far  from  showing  any  mistrust  of  her  intimacy  with  Lord  Mohun, 
encouraged  her  to  be  his  companion — as  if  willing  by  his  present 
extreme  confidence  to  make  up  for  any  past  mistrust  which  his 
jealousy  had  shown — the  Lady  Castlewood  enjoyed  herself  freely 
in  this  harmless  diversion,  which,  it  must  be  owned,  her  guest  was 
very  eager  to  give  her;  and  it  seemed  that  she  grew  the  more  free 
with  Lord  Mohun,  and  pleased  with  his  company,  because  of  some 
sacrifice  which  his  gallantry  was  pleased  to  make  in  her  favour. 

Seeing  the  two  gentlemen  constantly  at  cards  still  of  evenings, 
Harry  Esmond  one  day  deplored  to  his  mistress  that  this  fatal 
infatuation  of  her  lord  should  continue;  and  now  they  seemed 
reconciled  together,  begged  his  lady  to  hint  to  her  husband  that  he 
should  play  no  more. 

But  Lady  Castlewood,  smiling  archly  and  gaily,  said  she  would 
speak  to  him  presently,  and  that,  for  a  few  nights  more  at  least,  he 
might  be  let  to  have  his  amusement. 

"Indeed,  madam,"  said  Harry,  "you  know  not  what  it  costs 
you;  and  'tis  easy  for  any  observer  who  knows  the  game,  to  see 
that  Lord  Mohun  is  by  far  the  stronger  of  the  two." 

"I  know  he  is,"  says  my  Lady,  still  with  exceeding  good- 
humour;  "he  is  not  only  the  best  player,  but  the  kindest  player  in 
the  world." 

"Madam,  madam!"  Esmond  cried,  transported  and  provoked. 
•'Debts  of  honour  must  be  paid  some  time  or  other;  and  my 
master  will  be  ruined  if  he  goes  on." 

"Harry,  shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?"  my  Lady  replied,  with  kind- 
ness and  pleasure  still  in  her  eyes.  "Francis  will  not  be  ruined  if 
he  goes  on ;  he  will  be  rescued  if  he  goes  on.  I  repent  of  having 
spoken  or  thought  unkindly  of  the  Lord  Mohun  when  he  was  here 
in  the  past  year.  He  is  full  of  much  kindness  and  good;  and  'tis 
my  belief  that  we  shall  bring  him  to  better  things.  I  have  lent 
him  Tillotson  and  your  favourite  Bishop  Taylor,  and  he  is  much 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  183 

touched,  he  says;  and  as  a  proof  of  his  repentance— (and  herein 
lies  my  secret) — what  do  you  think  he  is  doing  with  Francis?  He 
is  letting  poor  Frank  win  his  money  back  again.  He  hath  won 
ah-eady  at  the  last  four  nights;  and  my  Lord  Mohun  says  that  he 
will  net  be  the  means  of  injuring  poor  Frank  and  my  dear  chil- 
dren." 

"And  in  God's  name,  what  do  you  return  him  for  the  sacrifice?" 
asked  Esmond,  aghast ;  who  knew  enough  of  men,  and  of  this  one 
in  particular,  to  be  aware  that  such  a  finished  rake  gave  nothing 
for  nothing.     "How,  in  Heaven's  name,  are  you  to  pay  him?" 

"Fay  him!  With  a  mother's  blessing  and  a,  wife's  prayers!" 
cries  my  Lady,  clasping  her  hands  together.  Harry  Esmond  did 
not  know  whether  to  laugh,  to  be  angry,  or  to  love  his  dear  mistress 
more  than  ever  for  the  obstinate  innocency  with  which  she  chose 
to  regard  the  conduct  of  a  man  of  tlie  world,  whose  designs  he 
knew  better  how  to  interpret.  He  told  the  lady,  guardedly,  but  so 
as  to  make  his  meaning  quite  clear  to  her,  what  he  knew  in  respect 
of  the  former  life  and  conduct  of  this  nobleman;  of  other  women 
against  whom  he  had  plotted,  and  whom  he  had  overcome ;  of  the 
conversation  which  he,  Harry  himself,  had  had  with  Lord  Mohun, 
wherein  the  lord  made  a  boast  of  his  libertinism,  and  frequently 
avowed  that  he  held  all  women  to  be  fair  game  (as  his  Lordsliip 
styled  this  pretty  sport),  and  that  they  were  all,  without  exception, 
to  be  won.  And  the  return  Harry  liad  for  his  entreaties  and 
remonstrances  was  a  fit  of  anger  on  Lady  Castlewood's  part,  who 
would  not  listen  to  his  accusations ;  she  said  and  retorted  that  he 
himself  must  be  very  wicked  and  perverted  to  suppose  evil  designs 
where  she  w^as  sure  none  were  meant.  "And  this  is  the  good 
meddlers  get  of  interfering,"  Harry  thought  to  himself  with  much 
bitterness;  and  his  perplexity  and  annoyance  were  only  the  greater, 
because  he  could  not  speak  to  my  Lord  Castlewood  himself  upon  a 
subject  of  this  nature,  or  venture  to  advise  or  w^arn  him  regarding 
a  matter  so  very  sacred  as  his  own  honour,  of  which  my  Lord  was 
naturally  the  best  guardian. 

But  though  Lady  Castlewood  would  listen  to  no  advice  from  hei 


184  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

young  dependant,  and  appeared  indignantly  to  refuse  it  wheu 
offered,  Harrj^  had  the  satisfaction  to  find  that  she  adopted  the 
counsel  which  she  professed  to  reject;  for  the  next  day  she  pleaded 
a  headache,  when  my  Lord  Mohun  would  have  had  her  drive  out, 
and  the  next  day  the  headache  continued;  and  next  day,  in  a 
laughing  gay  way,  she  proposed  that  the  children  should  take  her 
place  in  his  Lordship's  car,  for  they  would  be  charmed  with  a  ride 
of  all  things ;  and  she  must  not  have  all  the  pleasure  for  herself. 
My  Lord  gave  them  a  drive  with  a  very  good  grace,  though,  I  dare 
say,  with  rage  and  disappointment  inwardly — not  that  his  he;irt 
was  very  seriously  engaged  in  his  designs  upon  this  simple  lady : 
but  the  life  of  such  men  is  often  one  of  intrigue,  and  they  can  no 
more  go  through  the  daj^  without  a  woman  to  pursue,  tlian  a  fox- 
hunter  without  his  sjDort  after  breakfast. 

Under  an  affected  carelessness  of  demeanour,  and  though  there 
was  no  outward  demonstration  of  doubt  upon  his  patron's  part 
since  the  quarrel  between  the  two  lords,  Harry  3'et  saw  that  Lord 
Castlewood  was  watching  his  guest  very  narrowly;  and  caught 
sight  of  distrust  and  smothered  rage  (as  Harry  thought)  which 
foreboded  no  good.  On  the  point  of  honour  Esmond  knew  how 
touchy  his  patron  was;  and  watched  him  almost  as  a  physician 
watches  a  patient,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  one  was  slow  to 
take  the  disease,  though  he  could  not  throw  off  the  poison  when 
once  it  had  mingled  with  his  blood.  We  read  in  Shakspeare  (whom 
the  writer  for  his  part  considers  to  be  far  beyond  Mr.  Cougreve, 
Mr.  Dryden,  or  any  of  the  wits  of  the  present  period),  that  when 
jealousy  is  once  declared,  nor  poppy,  nor  mandragora,  nor  all  the 
drowsy  syrups  of  the  East,  will  ever  soothe  it  or  medicine  it  away. 

In  fine,  the  symptoms  seemed  to  be  so  alarming  to  this  3'oung 
physician  (who,  indeed,  young  as  he  was,  had  felt  the  kind  pulses 
ot  all  those  dear  kinsmen),  that  Harry  thought  it  would  be  his  duty 
to  warn  my  Lord  Mohun,  and  let  him  know  that  his  designs  were 
suspected  and  watched.  So  one  day,  when  in  rather  a  pettish 
humour  his  Lordship  had  sent  to  Lady  Castlewood,  who  had  prom- 
ised to  drive  with  him,  and  now  refused  to  come,  Harry  said,  '^jly 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  185 

Lord,  if  you  will  kindly  give  me  a  place  by  your  side  I  will  thank 
you ;  I  have  much  to  say  to  you,  and  would  like  to  speak  to  you 
alone." 

"You  honour  me  by  giving  me  your  confidence,  Mr.  Henry 
Esmond,"  says  the  other,  with  a  very  grand  bow.  My  Lord  was 
always  a  fine  gentleman,  and  young  as  he  was  there  v^-as  that  in 
Esmond's  manner  which  sho^ved  that  he  was  a  gentleman  too,  and 
that  none  might  take  a  liberty  with  him — so  the  pair  went  out,  and 
mounted  the  little  carriage,  which  was  in  waiting  for  them  in  tlie 
court,  with  its  two  little  cream-coloured  Hanoverian  horses  covered 
with  splendid  furniture  and  champing  at  the  bit. 

"My  Lord,"  says  Harry  Esmond,  after  they  were  got  into  the 
country,  and  pointing  to  my  Lord  Moliun's  foot,  which  was  swathed 
in  flannel,  and  put  up  rather  ostentatiously  on  a  cushion — "my 
Lord,  I  studied  medicine  at  Cambridge." 

"Indeed,  Parson  Harry,"  says  he;  "and  are  you  going  to  take 
out  a  diploma:  and  cure  your  fellow-students  of  the " 

"Of  the  gout,"  says  Harry,  interrupting  him,  and  looking  him 
hard  in  the  face:  "I  know  a  good  deal  about  the  gout." 

"I  hope  you  may  never  have  it.  'Tis  an  infernal  disease,"  says 
my  Lord,  "and  its  twinges  are  diabolical.  Ahl"  and  he  made  a 
dreadful  wry  face,  as  if  he  just  felt  a  twinge. 

"Your  Lordship  would  be  much  better  if  you  took  off  all  that 
flannel— it  only  serves  to  inflame  the  toe,"  Harry  continued,  look- 
ing his  man  full  in  the  face. 

"Oh:  it  only  serves  to  inflame  the  toe,  does  it?"  says  the  other, 
with  an  innocent  air. 

"If  you  took  off  that  flannel,  and  flung  that  absurd  slipper 
away,  and  wore  a  boot,"  continues  Harry. 

"You  recommend  me  boots,  Mr.  Esmond?"  asks  my  Lord. 

"Yes,  boots  and  spurs.     I  saw  your  Lordship  three  days  ago  run 

'/down  the  gallery  fast  enough,"  Harry  goes  on.     "I  am  sure  that 

taking  gruel  at  night  is  not  so  pleasant  as  claret  to  your  Lordship; 

md  besides  it  keeps  your  Lordship's  head  cool  for  play,  whilst  my 

batroii's  is  hot  and  flasterca  with  drink." 


Ige  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

"  'Sdeath,  sir,  you  dare  not  say  that  I  don't  play  fair?"  cries  my 
Lord,  whipping  his  horses,  which  went  away  at  a  gallop. 

"You  are  cool  when  my  Lord  is  drunk,*'  Harry  continued; 
'your  Lordship  gets  the  better  of  my  patron.  I  have  watched  you 
as  I  looked  up  from  my  books.'' 

"You  young  Argus  I"  says  Lord  Mohun,  who  liked  Harry 
Esmond — and  for  whose  company  and  wit,  and  a  certain  daring 
manner,  Harrj-  had  a  great  liking  too — "You  young  Argus  I  you 
may  look  with  all  your  hundred  eyes  and  see  we  play  fair.  I've 
played  away  an  estate  of  a  night,  and  I've  played  mj'  shirt  off  my 
back;  and  I've  played  away  my  periwig  and  gone  home  in  a  night- 
cap. But  no  man  can  say  I  ever  took  an  advantage  of  him  beyond 
tlie  advantage  of  the  game.  I  played  a  dice-cogging  scoundrel  in 
Alsatia  for  his  ears  and  won  'em,  and  have  one  of  'em  in  my 
lodging  in  Bow  Street  in  a  bottle  of  spirits.  Harry  Mohun  will 
play  any  man  for  anything— always  would." 

"You  are  playing  awful  stakes,  my  Lord,  in  my  patron's  house," 
Harry  said,  "and  more  games  than  are  on  the  cards." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?''  cries  my  Lord,  turning  round, ^ with 
a  flush  on  his  face. 

"I  mean,"  answers  Harry,  in  a  sarcastic  tone,  "that  your  gout 
is  well — if  ever  you  had  it." 

"Sir!"  cried  my  Lord,  getting  hot. 

"And  to  tell  the  truth,  I  believe  your  Lordship  has  no  more  gout 
than  I  have.  At  any  rate,  change  of  air  will  do  you  good,  my 
Lord  Mohun.  And  I  mean  fairly  that  you  had  better  go  from 
Castle  wood." 

"And  were  you  appointed  to  give  me  this  message?"  cries  the 
Lord  Mohun.     "Did  Frank  Esmond  commission  you?'' 

"No  one  did.  'Twas  the  honour  of  my  family  that  commis- 
sioned me.'' 

"And  you  are  prepared  to  answer  this?"  cries  the  other,  furi- 
ously lashing  his  liorses. 

"Quite,  my  Lord:  your  Lordship  will  upset  the  carriage  if  you 
whip  so  hotly." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESxMOND  187 

"By  George,  you  have  a  brave  spirit!"  my  Lord  cried  out, 
bursting  into  a  laugh.  "I  suppose  'tis  that  infernal  botte  cle  Jesuite 
that  makes  you  so  bold,"  he  added. 

"  'Tis  the  peace  of  the  family  I  love  best  in  the  world,"  Harry 
Esmond  said  warmly — "  'tis  the  honour  of  a  noble  benefactor — the 
happiness  of  my  dear  mistress  and  her  children.  I  owe  them  every- 
thing in  life,  my  Lord ;  and  would  lay  it  down  for  any  one  of  them. 
What  brings  you  here  to  disturb  this  quiet  household?  What  keeps 
you  lingering  month  after  month  in  the  country?  What  makes 
you  feign  illness  and  invent  pretexts  for  delay?  Is  it  to  win  my 
poor  patron's  money?  Be  generous,  my  Lord,  and  spare  his  weak- 
ness for  the  sake  of  his  wife  and  children.  Is  it  to  practise  upon 
the  simple  heart  of  a  virtuous  lady?  You  might  as  well  storm  the 
Tower  single-handed.  But  you  may  blemish  her  name  by  light 
comments  on  it,  or  by  lawless  pursuits — and  I  don't  deny  that  'tis 
in  your  power  to  make  her  unhappy.  Spare  these  innocent  people, 
and  leave  them." 

"By  the  Lord,  I  believe  thou  hast  an  eye  to  the  pretty  Puritan 
thyself,  Master  Harry,"  says  my  Lord,  with  his  reckless,  good- 
humoured  laugh,  and  as  if  he  had  been  listening  with  interest  to 
the  passionate  appeal  of  the  young  man.  "Whisper,  Harry.  Art 
thou  in  love  with  her  thyself?  Hath  tipsy  Frank  Esmond  come  by 
the  way  of  all  flesh?"  '^ 

"My  Lord,  my  Lord,"  cried  Harry,  his  face  flushing  and  his  eyes 
filling  as  he  spoke,  "I  never  had  a  mother,  but  I  love  this  lady  as 
one.  I  worship  her  as  a  devotee  worships  a  saint.  To  hear  her 
name  spoken  lightly  seems  blasphemy  to  me.  Would  you  dare  think 
of  your  own  mother  so,  or  suffer  any  one  so  to  speak  of  her?  It  is 
a  horror  to  me  to  fancy  that  any  man  should  think  of  her  impurely. 
I  implore  you,  I  beseech  you,  to  leave  her.  Danger  will  come  out 
of  it." 

"Danger,  psha!"  says  my  Lord,  giving  a  cut  to  the  horses, 
which  at  this  minute — for  we  were  got  on  to  the  Downs — fairly  ran 
off  into  a  gallop  that  no  pulling  could  stop.  The  rein  broke  in  Lord 
Mohun's  hands,  and  the  furious  beasts  scampered  madly  forwards, 


188  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

the  carriage  swaying  to  and  fro,  and  the  persons  within  it  holdinj^ 
on  to  the  sides  as  best  they  might  until,  seeing  a  great  ravine  before 
them,  where  an  upset  was  inevitable,  the  two  gentlemen  leapt  for 
their  lives,  each  out  of  his  side  of  the  chaise.  Harry  Esmond  was 
quit  for  a  fall  on  the  grass,  ;Which  was  so  severe  that  it  stunned 
him  for  a  minute;  but  he  got  up  presently  very  sick,  and  bleedinsj 
at  the  nose,  but  with  no  other  hurt.  The  Lord  Mohun  was  not  so 
fortunate;  he  fell  on^  his  head  against  a  stone,  and  lay  on  the 
ground,  dead  to  all  appearance. 

This  misadventure  happened  as  the  gentlemen  were  on  theii 
return  homewards;  and  my  Lord  Castle  wood,  with  his  son  and 
daughter,  who  were  going  out  for  a  ride,  met  the  ponies  as  they 
were  galloping  with  .the  car  behind,  the  broken  traces  entangling 
their  heels,  and  my  Lord's  people  turned  and  stopped  them.  It 
was  young  Frank  who  spied  out  Lord  Mohun's  scarlet  coat  as  he 
lay  on  the  ground,  and  the  party  made  up  to  that  unfortunate  gen- 
tleman and  Esmond,  who  was  now  standing  over  him.  His  large 
periwig  and  feathered  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  he  was  bleeding  pro 
fusely  from  a  wound  on  the  forehead,  and  looking,  and  being 
indeed,  a  corpse. 

"Great  God!  he's  dead!"  says  my  Lord.  "Ride,  some  one. 
fetch  a  doctor — stay.  I'll  go  home  and  bring  back  Tusher;  he 
knows  surgery,"  and  my  Lord,  with  his  son  after  him,  galloped 
away. 

They  were  scarce  gone  when  Harry  Esmond,  who  was  indeed 
but  just  come  to  himself,  bethought  him  of  a  similar  accident 
which  he  had  seen  on  a  ride  from  Newmarket  to  Cambridge,  and 
taking  off  a  sleeve  of  my  Lord's  coat,  Harry,  with  a  penknife, 
opened  a  vein  in  his  arm,  and  was  greatly  relieved,  after  a  moment, 
to  see  the  blood  flow.  He  was  near  lialf-an-hour  before  he  came  to 
himself,  by  which  time  Doctor  Tusher  and  little  Frank  arrived, 
and  found  my  Lord  not  a  corpse  indeed,  but  as  pale  as  one. 

After  a  time,  when  he  was  able  to  bear  motion,  they  put  my 
Lord  upon  a  groom's  horse,  and  gave  the  other  to  Esmond,  the  men 
walking  oh  each  side  of  my  Lord,  to  support  him,  if  need  were, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

and  worthy  Doctor  Tusher  with  them.  Little  Frank  and  Harrj 
rode  together  at  a  foot  pace. 

When  we  rode  together  home,  the  boy  said:  "We  met  mamma, 
who  was  walking  on  the  terrace  with  the  Doctor,  and  papa  friglit- 
ened  her,  and  told  her  you  were  dead " 

"That  I  was  dead?"  asks  Harry. 

"Yes.  Papa  says:  'Here's  poor  Harry  killed,  my  dear;'  on 
which  mamma  gives  a  great  scream;  and  oh,  Harry!  she  drops 
down ;  and  I  thought  she  was  dead  too.  And  you  never  saw  such  a 
way  as  papa  was  in:  he  swore  one  of  his  great  oaths:  and  he 
turned  quite  pale ;  and  then  he  began  to  laugh  somehow,  and  he 
told  the  Doctor  to  take  his  horse,  and  me  to  follow  him;  and  we 
left  him.  And  I  looked  back,  and  saw  him  dashing  water  out  of 
the  fountain  on  to  mamma.     Oh,  she  was  so  frightened!" 

Musing  upon  this  curious  history — for  my  Lord  Mohun's  name 
was  Henry  too,  and  they  called  each  other  Frank  and  Harry  often 
— and  not  a  little  disturbed  and  anxious,  Esmond  rode  home.  His 
dear  lady  was  on  the  terrace  still,  one  of  her  women  with  her,  and 
my  Lord  no  longer  there.  There  are  steps  and  a  little  door  thence 
down  into  the  road.  My  Lord  passed,  looking  very  ghastly,  with  a 
handkerchief  over  his  head,  and  without  his  hat  and  periwig,  which 
a  groom  carried;  but  his  politeness  did  not  desert  him,  and  he 
made  a  bow  to  the  lady  above. 

"Thank  Heaven,  you  are  safe!"  she  said. 

"And  so  is  Harry  too,  mamma,"  says  little  Frank, — "huzzay!" 

Harry  Esmond  got  off  the  horse  to  run  to  his  mistress,  as  did 
little  Frank,  and  one  of  the  grooms  took  charge  of  the  two  beasts, 
Avhile  the  other,  hat  and  periwig  in  hand,  walked  by  my  Lord's 
bridle  to  the  fi'ont  gate,  which  lay  half-a-mile  away. 

"Oh  my  boy!  what  a  fright  you  have  given  me!"  Lady  Castle- 
wood  said,  when  Harry  Esmond  came  up,  greeting  him  with  one  of 
her  shining  looks,  and  a  voice  of  tender  welcome ;  and  she  was  so 
kind  as  to  kiss  the  young  man  ('twas  the  second  time  she  had  so 
honoured  him),  and  she  walked  into  the  house  between  him  and 
her  son,  holding  a  hand  of  each. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WE   RIDE   AFTER   HIM   TO   LONDON 

After  a  repose  of  a  couple  of  clays,  the  Lord  Moliun  was  so  far 
recovered  of  his  hurt  as  to  be  able  to  announce  liis  departure  for 
the  next  morning;  when,  accordingly,  he  took  leave  of  Castlewood, 
Xjroposing  to  ride  to  London  by  easy  stages,  and  lie  two  nights  upon 
the  road.  His  host  treated  him  with  a  studied  and  ceremonious 
courtesy,  certainly  different  from  my  Lord's  usual  frank  and  care- 
less demeanour ;  but  there  was  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the  two 
lords  parted  otherwise  than  good  friends,  though  Harry  Esmond 
remarked  that  my  Lord  Viscount  only  saw  his  guest  in  company 
with  other  persons,  and  seemed  to  avoid  being  alone  with  him. 
Nor  did  he  ride  any  distance  with  Lord  Mohun,  as  his  custom  was 
with  most  of  his  friends,  whom  he  was  always  eager  to  welcome 
and  unwilling  to  lose;  but  contented  himself,  when  his  Lordship's 
horses  were  announced,  and  their  owner  appeared,  booted  for  his 
journey,  to  take  a  courteous  leave  of  tlie  ladies  of  Castlewood,  by 
following  the  Lord  Mohun  downstairs  to  his  horses,  and  by  bowing 
and  wishing  him  a  good-day  in  the  courtyard.  "I  shall  see  you  in 
liOndon  before  very  long,  Mohun,"  my  Lord  said,  with  a  smile; 
"when  we  will  settle  our  accounts  together." 

"Do  not  let  them  trouble  you,  Frank,"  said  the  other  good- 
naturedly,  and  holding  out  his  hand,  looked  rather  surprised  at  the 
grim  and  stately  manner  in  which  his  host  received  his  parting 
salutation ;  and  so,  followed  by  his  people,  he  rode  av.-ay. 

Harry  Esmond  was  witness  of  the  departure.  It  was  very 
different  to  my  Lord's  coming,  for  which  great  preparation  had 
been  made  (the  old  house  putting  on  its  best  appearance  to  wel- 
come its  guest),  and  there  was  a  sadness  and  constraint  about  all 
persons  that  day,  which  filled  Mr.  Esmond  with  gloomy  forebod- 

190 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  191 

ings,  and  sad  indefinite  apprehensions.  Lord  Castlewood  stood  at 
the  door  watching  his  guest  and  his  people  as  they  went  out  under 
the  arch  of  the  outer  gate.  When  he  was  there,  Lord  Mohun 
turned  once  more;  my  Lord  Viscount  slowly  raised  his  beaver  and 
bowed.  His  face  wore  a  peculiar  livid  look,  Harry  thought.  He 
cursed  and  kicked  away  his  dogs,  which  came  jumping  about  him 
— then  he  walked  up  to  the  fountain  in  the  centre  of  the  court,  and 
leaned  against  a  pillar  and  looked  into  the  basin.  As  Esmond 
crossed  over  to  his  own  room,  late  the  chaplain's,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  court,  and  turned  to  enter  in  at  the  low  door,  he  saw  Lady 
Castlewood  looking  through  the  curtains  of  the  great  window  of 
the  drawing-room  overhead,  at  my  Lord  as  he  stood  regarding  the 
fountain.  There  was  in  the  court  a  peculiar  silence  somehow;  and 
the  scene  remained  long  in  Esmond's  memory: — the  sky  bright 
overhead ;  the  buttresses  of  the  building  and  the  sundial  casting 
shadow  over  the  gilt  memento  mori  inscribed  underneath ;  the  two 
dogs,  a  black  greyhound  and  a  spaniel  nearly  white,  the  one  with 
his  face  up  to  the  sun,  and  the  other  snuffing  amongst  the  grass  and 
stones,  and  my  Lord  leaning  over  the  fountain,  which  was  bubbling 
audibly.  'Tis  strange  how  that  scene,  and  the  sound  of  that  foun- 
tain, remain  fixed  on  the  memory  of  a  man  who  has  beheld  a 
Imndred  sights  of  splendour,  and  danger  too,  of  which  he  has  kept 
no  account. 

It  was  Lady  Castlewood — she  had  been  laughing  all  the  morn- 
ing, and  especially  gay  and  lively  before  her  husband  and  his  guest 
— who  as  soon  as  the  two  gentlemen  went  together  from  her  room, 
ran  to  Harry,  the  expression  of  her  countenance  quite  changed 
now,  and  with  a  face  and  eyes  full  of  care,  and  said,  "Follow  them, 
Harry,  I  am  sure  something  has  gone  wrong,"  And  so  it  was  that 
Esmond  was  made  an  eavesdropper  at  this  lady's  orders:  and 
retired  to  his  own  chamber,  to  give  himself  time  in  truth  to  try  and 
compose  a  story  which  would  soothe  his  mistress,  for  he  could  not 
but  have  his  own  apprehension  that  some  serious  quarrel  was  pend- 
ing between  the  two  gentlemen. 

And  now  for  several  days  the  little  company  at  Castlewood  sat 


192  THE   HISTORY    OF   HENRY    ESMOND 

at  table  as  of  evenings:  this  care,  though  unnamed  and  invisible, 
being  nevertheless  present  alway,  in  the  minds  of  at  least  thred 
persons  there.  My  Lord  was  exceeding  gentle  and  kind.  When- 
ever he  quitted  the  room,  his  wife's  eyes  followed  him.  He  behaved 
to  her  with  a  kind  of  mournful  courtesy  and  kindness  remarkable 
in  one  of  his  blunt  ways  and  ordinary  rough  manner.  He  called 
her  by  her  Christian  name  often  and  fondly,  was  very  soft  and 
gentle  with  the  children,  especially  with  the  boy,  whom  he  did  not 
love,  and  being  lax  about  church  generally,  he  went  thither  and 
performed  all  the  offices  (down  even  to  listening  to  Doctor  Tusher's 
sermon)  with  great  devotion. 

'He  paces  his  room  all  night:  what  is  it?  Henry,  find  out  what 
it  is,"'  Lady  Castle  wood  said  constantly  to  her  young  dependant. 
"He  has  sent  three  letters  to  London,"  she  said,  another  day. 

"Indeed,  madam,  they  were  to  a  lawyer,''  Harry  answered,  who 
knew  of  these  letters,  and  had  seen  a  part  of  the  correspondence, 
which  related  to  a  new  loan  my  Lord  was  raising;  and  when  the 
young  man  remonstrated  with  his  patron,  my  Lord  said  he  "was 
only  raising  money  to  pay  off  an  old  debt  on  the  property,  which 
must  be  discharged." 

Regarding  the  money,  Lady  Castlewood  was  not  in  the  least 
anxious.  Few  fond  women  feel  money-distressed ;  indeed  you  can 
hardly  give  a  woman  a  greater  pleasure  than  to  bid  her  pawn  her 
diamonds  for  the  man  she  loves ;  and  I  remember  hearing  Mr.  Con- 
greve  say  of  my  Lord  Marlborough,  that  the  reason  why  my  Lord 
was  so  successful  with  women  as  a  young  man,  was  because  he  took 
money  of  them.  "There  are  few  men  who  will  make  such  a  sac- 
rifice for  them,"  says  Mr.  Congreve,  who  knew  a  part  of  the  sex 
pretty  well. 

Harry  Esmond's  vacation  was  just  over,  and,  as  hath  been  said, 
he  was  preparing  to  return  to  the  University  for  his  last  term 
before  taking  his  degree  and  entering  into  the  Church.  '  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  for  this  office,  not  indeed  with  that  reverence 
which  becomes  a  man  about  to  enter  upon  a  duty  so  holy,  but  with 
a  worldly  spirit  of  acquiescence  in  the  prudence  of  adopting  that 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  193 

profession  for  his  calling.  But  his  reasoning  was  that  he  owed  all 
to  the  family  of  Castlewood,  and  loved  better  to  be  near  them  than 
anywhere  else  in  the  world;  that  he  might  be  useful  to  his  benefac- 
tors, who  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  him  and  affection  for  him 
in  return;  that  he  might  aid  in  bringing  up  the  young  heir  of  the 
house  and  acting  as  his  governor;  that  he  might  continue  to  be  his 
dear  patron's  and  mistress's  friend  and  adviser,  who  both  were 
pleased  to  say  that  they  should  ever  look  upon  him  as  such ;  and  so, 
by  making  himself  useful  to  those  he  loved  best,  he  proposed  to 
console  himself  for  giving  up  any  schemes  of  ambition  which  he 
might  have  had  in  his  own  bosom.  Indeed,  his  mistress  had  told 
him  that  she  would  not  have  him  leave  her;  and  whatever  she 
commanded  was  will  to  him. 

Tlie  Lady  Castlewood's  mind  was  greatly  relieved  in  the  last 
few  days  of  this  well-remembered  holiday  time,  by  my  Lord's 
annomicing  one  morning,  after  the  post  had  brought  him  letters 
from  London,  in  a  careless  tone,  that  the  Lord  Mohun  was  gone  to 
Paris,  and  was  about  to  make  a  great  journey  in  Europe;  and 
though  Lord  Castlewood's  owm  gloom  did  not  wescr  off,  or  his 
behaviour  alter,  yet  this  cause  of  anxiety  being  removed  from  his 
lady's  mind,  she  began  to  be  more  hopeful  and  easy  in  her  spirits, 
striving  too,  with  all  her  heart,  and  by  all  the  means  of  soothing  in 
her  power,  to  call  back  m-  Lord's  cheerfulness  and  dissipate  his 
moody  humour. 

He  accounted  for  it  himself,  by  saying  that  he  was  out  of 
health ;  that  he  wanted  to  see  his  physician ;  that  he  would  go  to 
London,  and  consult  Dr.  Cheyne,  It  was  agreed  that  his  Lordship 
and  Harry  Esmond  should  make  the  journey  as  far  as  London 
together;  and  of  a  Monday  morning,  the  11th  of  October,  in  the 
year  1700,  they  set  forwards  towards  ^London  on  horseback.  The 
day  before  being  Sunday,  and  the  rain  pouring  down,  the  family 
did  not  visit  church;  and  at  night  my  Lord  read  the  service  to  his 
family  very  finely,  and  with  a  peculiar  sweetness  and  gravity 
— speaking  the  parting  benediction,  Harry  thought,  as  solemn  as 
ever  he  heard  it.     And  he  kissed  and  embraced  his  wife  and  chil- 


194  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

dren  before  they  went  to  their  own  chambers  with  more  fondn^'^'. 
than  he  was  ordinarily  wont  to  show,  and  with  a  solemnity  and 
feeling  of  which  they  thought  in  after  days  with  no  small  comfort. 

They  took  horse  the  next  morning  (after  adieux  from  the  family 
as  tender  as  on  the  night  previous),  laj^  that  night  on  the  road,  and 
entered  London  at  nightfall;  my  Lord  going  to  the  "Trumpet,"  in 
the  Cockpit,  Whitehall,  a  house  used  b}^  the  military  in  his  time  as 
a  young  man,  and  accustomed  by  his  Lordship  ever  since. 

An  hour  after  my  Lord's  arrival  (which  showed  that  his  visit 
had  been  arranged  beforehand),  my  Lord's  man  of  business  arrived 
from  Gray's  Inn;  and  thinking  that  his  patron  might  wish  to  be 
private  with  the  lawyer,  Esmond  was  for  leaving  them:  but  my 
Lord  said  his  business  was  short;  introduced  Mr.  Esmond  particu- 
larly to  the  lawyer,  who  had  been  engaged  for  the  family  in  the 
old  lord's  time ;  who  said  that  he  had  paid  the  money,  as  desired 
that  day,  to  my  Lord  Mohun  himself,  at  his  lodgings  in  Bow  Street; 
that  his  Lordship  had  expressed  some  surprise,  as  it  was  not  cus- 
tomary to  employ  lawyers,  he  said,  in  such  transactions  between 
men  of  honour;  but,  nevertheless,  he  had  returned  my  Lord 
Viscount's  note  of  hand,  which  he  held  at  his  client's  disposition. 

"I  thought  the  Lord  Mohun  had  been  in  Paris?"  cried  Mr. 
Esmond,  in  great  alarm  and  astonishment. 

"He  is  come  back  at  my  invitation,"  said  my  Lord  Viscount. 
"We  have  accounts  to  settle  together." 

"I  pray  Heaven  they  are  over,  sir,"  says  Esmond. 

"Oh,  quite,"  replied  the  other,  looking  hard  at  the  young  man. 
"He  was  rather  troublesome  about  that  money  which  I  told  you  I 
had  lost  to  him  at  play.  And  now  'tis  paid,  and  we  are  quits  on 
that  score, and  we  shall  meet  good  friends  again."  m 

"My  Lord,"  cried  out  Esmond,  "I  am  sure  you  are  deceiving  ^ 
me,  and  that  there  is  a  quarrel  between  the  Lord  Mohun  and  you." 

"Quarrel — pish!  We  shall  sup  together  this  very  night,  and 
drink  a  bottle.  Every  man  is  ill-humoured  who  loses  such  a  sum  as 
I  have  lost.     But  now  'tis  paid,  and  my  anger  is  gone  with  it." 

"Where  shall  we  sup,  sir?"  says  Harry. 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  1^5 

"We!  L3t  some  gentlemen  wait  till  they  are  asked,"  says  my 
Lord  Viscount,  with  a  laugh.  "You  go  to  Duke  Street,  and  see  Mr. 
Betterton.  You  love  the  play,  I  know.  Leave  me  to  follow  my 
own  devices:  and  in  the  morning  we'll  breakfast  together,  with 
what  appetite  we  may,  as  the  play  saj's.'' 

"By   G !  my  Lord,  I  will  not  leave  3'ou  this  night,"  says 

Harry  Esmond.  "I  think  I  know  the  cause  of  your  dispute.  I 
swear  to  you  'tis  nothing.  On  the  very  day  the  accident  befell 
Lord  Mohun,  I  was  speaking  to  him  about  it.  I  know  that  nothing 
has  passed  but  idle  gallantry  on  his  part." 

"You  know  tliat  nothing  has  passed  but  idle  gallantry  between 
Lord  Mohun  and  my  wife,"  says  my  Lord,  in  a  thundering  voice— 
"you  knew  of  tliis  and  did  not  tell  me?'' 

"I  knew  more  of  it  than  my  dear  mistress  did  herself,  sir — a 
thousand  times  more.  How  was  she,  who  was  as  innocent  as  a 
child,  to  know  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  covert  addresses  of  a 
villain?" 

"A  villain  he  is,  you  allow,  and  would  have  taken  my  wife  away 
from  me." 

"Sir,  she  is  as  pure  as  an  angel,"  cried  young  Esmond. 

"HaA-e  I  said  a  word  against  her?"  shrieks  out  my  Lord.  "Did  I 
ever  doubt  that  she  was  pure?  It  would  have  been  the  last  day  of 
her  life  when  I  did.  Do  you  fancy  I  think  that  she  would  go  astray? 
No,  she  hasn't  passion  enough  for  that.  She  neither  sins  nor  for- 
gives. I  know  her  temper — and  now  I've  lost  her,  by  Heaven  I  love 
her  ten  thousand  times  more  than  ever  I  did — 3'es,  when  she  was 
young  and  as  beautiful  as  an  angel — when  she  smiled  at  me  in  her 
old  father's  house,  and  used  to  lie  in  wait  for  me  there  as  I  came 
from  hunting — when  I  used  to  fling  my  head  down  on  her  little 
knees  and  cry  like  a  child  on  her  lap — and  swear  I  would  reform, 
and  drink  no  more,  and  play  no  more,  and  follow  women  no  more; 
when  all  the  men  of  the  Court  used  to  be  following  her — when  she 
used  to  look  with  her  child  more  beautiful,  by  George,  than  tne 
Madonna  in  the  Queen's  Chapel.  I  am  not  good  like  her,  I  know 
it.     Who  is — bv  Heaven,  who  is?     I  tired  and  wearied  her,  I  know 


196  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

that  very  well.  I  could  not  talk  to  her.  You  men  ot  wit"  and 
books  could  do  that,  and  I  couldn't — I  felt  I  couldn't.  Why,  when 
you  was  but  a  boy  of  fifteen  I  could  hear  you  two  together  talking 
your  poetry  and  your  books  till  I  was  in  such  a  rage  that  I  was  fit 
to  strangle  j'ou.  But  you  were  always  a  good  lad,  Harry,  and  I 
loved  you,  you  know  I  did.  And  I  felt  she  didn't  belong  to  me: 
and  the  children  don't.  And  I  besotted  myself,  and  gambled,  and 
drank,  and  took  to  all  sorts  of  devilries  out  of  despair  and  fury. 
And  now  comes  this  Mohun,  and  she  likes  him,  I  know  she  likes 
him." 

"Indeed,  and  on  my  soul,  you  are  wrong,  sir,"  Esmond  cried. 

"She  takes  letters  from  him,"  cries  my  Lord — "look  here, 
Harry,"  and  he  pulled  out  a  paper  with  a  brown  stain  of  blood 
upon  it.  "It  fell  from  him  that  day  he  wasn't  killed.  One  of  the 
grooms  picked  it  up  from  the  ground  and  gave  it  to  me.    Here  it  is 

in  their  d d  comedy  jargon.     'Divine  Gloriana — Why  look  so 

coldly  on  your  slave  who  adores  you?  Have  you  no  compassion  on 
the  tortures  you  have  seen  me  suffering?  Do  you  vouchsafe  no 
reply  to  billets  that  are  written  with  the  blood  of  my  heart?'  She 
had  more  letters  from  him."  j 

"But  she  answered  none,"  cries  Esmond.  m 

"That's  not  Mohun's  fault,"  says  my  Lord,  "and  I  will  bo 
revenged  on  him,  as  God's  in  heaven,  I  will." 

"For  a  light  word  or  two,  will  you  risk  your  lady's  honour  and 
your  family's  happiness,  my  Lord?"  Esmond  interposed  beseech 
ingly. 

"Psha!  there  shall  be  no  question  of  my  wife's  honour."  said  my 
Lord;  "we  can  quarrel  on  plenty  of  grounds  beside.  If  I  live,  that 
villain  will  be  punished;  if  I  fall,  my  family  will  be  only  the 
better:  there  will  only  be  a  spendthrift  the  less  to  keep  in  the 
world:  and  Frank  has  better  teacliing  than  his  father.  My  mind  is 
made  up,  Harry  Esmond,  and  whatever  the  event  is,  I  am  easy 
about  it.     I  leave  my  wife  and  you  as  guardians  to  the  children." 

Seeing  that  my  Lord  was  bent  upon  pursuing  this  quarrel,  and 
that  no  entreaties  would  draw  him  from  it,  Harry  Esmond  (then  of 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  197 

a  hotter  and  more  impetuous  nature  than  now,  when  care,  and 
reflection,  and  grey  hairs  have  calmed  him)  thought  it  was  his  duty 
to  stand  by  his  kind,  generous  imtron,  and  said,  "My  Lord,  if  you 
are  determined  upon  war,  you  must  not  go  into  it  alone.  'Tis  the 
duty  of  our  house  to  stand  by  its  chief;  and  I  should  neither  for- 
give myself  nor  you  if  you  did  not  call  me,  or  I  should  be  absent 
from  you  at  a  moment  of  danger." 

"Why,  Harry,  my  poor  boy,  you  are  bred  for  a  parson,"  says  my 
Lord,  taking  Esmond  by  the  hand  very  kindly;  "and  it  were  a 
great  pity  that  you  should  meddle  in  the  matter." 

"Your  Lordship  thought  of  being  a  churchman  once,"  Harry 
answered,  "and  your  father's  orders  did  not  prevent  him  fighting 
at  Castlewood  against  the  Roundheads.  Your  enemies  are  mine, 
sir ;  I  can  use  the  foils,  as  you  have  seen,  indifferently  well,  and 
don't  think  I  shall  be  afraid  when  the  buttons  are  taken  off  'em." 
And  then  Harry  explained,  with  some  blushes  and  hesitation  (for 
the  matter  was  delicate,  and  he  feared  lest,  by  having  put  himself 
forward  in  the  quarrel,  he  might  have  offended  his  patron),  how  he 
had  himself  expostulated  with  the  Lord  IMohuu,  and  proposed  to 
measure  swords  with  him  if  need  were,  and  he  could  not  be  got  to 
withdraw  peaceably  in  this  dispute.  "And  I  should  have  beat  him, 
sir,"  says  Harry,  laughing.  "He  never  could  parry  that  botte  I 
brought  from  Cambridge.  Let  us  have  half-an-hour  of  it,  and 
rehearse — I  can  teach  it  your  Lordship:  'tis  the  most  delicate  point 
in  the  world,  and  if  you  miss  it,  your  adversary's  sword  is  through 
you. ' ' 

"By  George,  Harry,  you  ought  to  be  the  head  of  the  house," 
says  my  Lord  gloomily.  "You  had  been  a  better  Lord  Castlewood 
than  a  lazy  sot  like  me,"  he  added,  drawing  his  hand  across  his 
eyes,  and  surveying  his  kinsman  with  very  kind  and  affectionate 
glances. 

"Let  us  take  our  coats  off  and  have  half-an-hour's  practice 
before  nightfall,"  says  Harry,  after  thankfully  grasping  his  patron's 
manly  hand, 

"You  are   but   a   little   bit    of    a   lad,"    says    my   Lord    good- 


198  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

humouredly;  "but,  in  faith,  I  believe  you  could  do  for  that  fellow. 
No,  my  boy,"  he  continued,  "I'll  have  none  of  your  feints  and 
tricks  of  stabbing:  I  can  use  my  sword  pretty  well  too,  and  wiU 
fight  my  own  quarrel  my  own  way." 

"But  I  shall  be  by  to  see  fair  play?"  cries  Harry. 

"Yes,  God  bless  you — you  shall  be  by." 

"When  is  it,  sir?"  says  Harry,  for  he  saw  that  the  matter  had 
been  arranged  privately  and  beforehand  by  my  Lord. 

" 'Tis  arranged  thus:  I  sent  off  a  courier  to  Jack  Westbury  to 
say  that  I  wanted  him  specially.  He  knows  for  what,  and  will  be 
here  presently,  and  drink  part  of  that  bottle  of  sack.  Then  we 
shall  go  to  the  theatre  in  Duke  Street,  where  we  shall  meet  IMohun; 
and  then  we  shall  all  go  sup  at  the  'Rose'  or  the  'Greyhound.' 
Then  we  shall  call  for  cards,  and  there  will  be  probably  a  difference 
over  the  cards — and  then,  God  help  us! — either  a  wicked  villain  and 
traitor  shall  go  out  of  the  world,  or  a  poor  worthless  devil,  that 
doesn't  care  to  remain  in  it.  I  am  better  away,  Hal — my  wife  will 
be  all  the  happier  when  I  am  gone,"  says  my  Lord,  with  a  groan, 
that  tore  the  heart  of  Harry  Esmond,  so  that  he  fairly  broke  into  a 
sob  over  his  patron's  kind  hand. 

"The  business  was  talked  over  with  Mohun  before  he  left  home 
— Castlewood  I  mean" — my  Lord  went  on.  "I  took  the  letter  in  to 
him,  which  I  had  read,  and  I  charged  him  with  his  villainy,  and 
he  could  make  no  denial  of  it,  only  he  said  that  my  wife  was 
innocent." 

"And  so  she  is;  before  Heaven,  my  Lord,  she  is!"  cries  Harry. 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt.  Tliey  always  are, "  says  my  Lord.  "No 
doubt,  when  she  heard  he  was  killed,  she  fainted  from  accident." 

"But,  my  Lord,  my  name  is  Harry,"  cried  cut  Esmond,  burning 
red.     "You  told  my  Lady,  'Harry  was  killed!'  " 

"Damnation!  shall  I  fight  you  too?"  shouts  my  Lord  in  a  fury. 
"Are  you,  you  little  serpent,  warmed  by  my  fire,  going  to  sting — 
you? — No,  my  boy,  you're  an  honest  hoy;  you  are  a  good  boy.' 
(And  here  he  broke  from  rage  into  tears  even  more  cruel  to  see.) 
"You  are  an  honest  boy,  and  I  love  you;  and,  by  heavens,  I  am  so 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  199 

wretched  that  I  don't  care  what  sword  it  is  that  ends  me.  Stop, 
here's  Jack  Westbury.  Well,  Jack!  Welcome,  old  boy!  This  is 
my  kinsman,  Harry  Esmond." 

"Who  brought  your  bowls  for  you  at  Castlewood,  sir,"  says 
Harry,  bowing;  and  the  three  gentlemen  sat  down  and  drank  of 
that  bottle  of  sack  which  was  prepared  for  them. 

"Harry  is  number  three,"  sa3's  my  Lord.  "You  needn't  be 
afraid  of  him,  Jack."  And  the  Colonel  gave  a  look,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "Indeed,  he  don't  look  as  if  I  need."  And  then  my  Lord 
explained  what  he  had  only  told  by  hints  before.  When  he  quar- 
relled with  Lord  Mohun  he  was  indebted  to  his  Lordship  in  a  sum 
of  sixteen  hundred  pounds,  for  which  Lord  Mohun  said  he  proposed 
to  wait  until  my  Lord  Viscount  should  pay  him.  My  Lord  had 
raised  the  sixteen  hundred  pounds  and  sent  them  to  Lord  Mohun 
that  morning,  and  before  quitting  home  had  put  his  affairs  into 
order,  and  was  now  quite  ready  to  abide  the  issue  of  the  quarrel. 

When  we  had  drunk  a  couple  of  bottles  of  sack,  a  coach  was 
called,  and  the  three  gentlemen  went  to  the  Duke's  Play-house,  as 
agreed.    The  play  was  one  of  Mr.  Wycherley's — "Love  in  a  Wood." 

Harry  Esmond  has  thought  of  that  play  ever  since  with  a  kind 
of  terror,  and  of  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  the  actress  who  performed  the 
girl's  part  in  the  comedy.  She  was  disguised  as  a  page,  and  came 
and  stood  before  the  gentlemen  as  they  sat  on  the  stage,  and  looked 
over  her  shoulder  with  a  pair  of  arch  black  eyes,  and  laughed  at 
my  Lord,  and  asked  what  ailed  the  gentleman  from  the  country, 
and  had  he  had  bad  news  from  Bullock  fair? 

Between  the  acts  of  the  play  the  gentlemen  crossed  over  and 
conversed  freely.  There  were  two  of  Lord  Mohun's  party.  Captain 
Macartney,  in  a  military  habit,  and  a  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  blue 
velvet  and  silver  in  a  fair  periwig,  with  a  rich  fall  of  point  of 
Venice  lace— my  Lord  the  Earl  of  Warwick  and  Holland.  My 
Lord  had  a  paper  of  oranges,  which  lie  ate  and  offered  to  the 
actresses,  joking  with  them.  And  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  when  my 
Lord  Mohun  said  something  rude,  turned  on  him,  and  asked  him 
what  he  did  there,  and  whether  lie  and  his  friends  had  come  to 


200  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

stab  anybody  else,  as  they  did  poor  Will  Mountford?  My  Lord's 
dark  face  grew  darker  at  this  taunt,  and  wore  a  mischievous,  fatal 
look.     They  that  saw  it  remembered  it,  and  said  so  afterward. 

When  the  play  was  ended  the  two  parties  joined  company;  and 
my  Lord  Castlewood  then  proposed  that  they  should  go  to  a  tavern 
and  sup.  Lockifs,  the  "Greyhound,"  in  Charing  Cross,  was  the 
house  selected.  All  six  marched  together  that  way;  the  three 
lords  going  ahead,  Lord  Mohun's  captain,  and  Colonel  Westbury, 
and  Harry  Esmond  walking  behind  them.  As  they  walked.  West- 
bury  told  Harry  Esmond  about  his  old  friend  Dick  the  Scliolar,  who 
had  got  promotion,  and  was  Cornet  of  the  Guards,  and  had  wrote  a 
book  called  the  "Christian  Hero,"  and  had  all  the  Guards  to  laugli 
at  him  for  his  pains,  for  the  Christian  Hero  was  breaking  the  com- 
mandments constantly,  Westbury  said,  and  had  fought  one  or  two 
duels  already.  And,  in  a  lower  tone,  AVestbury  besought  young  Mr. 
Esmond  to  take  no  part  in  the  quarrel.  "There  svas  no  need  f or 
more  seconds  than  one,"  said  the  Colonel,  "and  the  Captain  or  Lord 
W^arwick  might  easily  withdravr. "  But  Harry  said  no;  he  was 
bent  on  going  through  with  the  business.  Indeed,  he  had  a  plan 
in  his  head,  which,  he  thought,  might  prevent  my  Lord  Viscount 
from  engaging. 

They  went  in  at  the  bar  of  the  tavern,  and  desired  a  private 
room  and  wine  and  cards,  and  when  the  drawer  had  brought  these, 
they  began  to  drink  and  call  healths,  and  as  long  as  the  servants 
were  in  the  room  appeared  very  friendly. 

Harry  Esmond's  plan  was  no  other  than  to  engage  in  talk  with 
Lord  Mohun,  to  insult  him,  and  so  get  the  first  of  the  quarrel.  So 
when  cards  were  proposed  he  oiTered  to  play.  "Psha!"  sa3's  my 
Lord  Mohun  (whether  wishing  to  save  Harry,  or  not  choosing  to 
try  the  botte  de  Jesiiite,  it  is  not  to  be  known);  "young  gentle- 
men fiom  College  should  not  play  these  stakes.  You  are  too 
young." 

"Who  dares  say  I  am  too  young?"  broke  out  Harry.  "Is  your 
Lordshif)  afraid?" 

"Afraid!"  cries  out  Mohun. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  201 

But  my  good  Lord  Viscount  saw  the  move.  "I'll  play  you  for 
ten  moidores,  Mohun,"  says  he.  "You  silly  boy,  we  don't  play  for 
groats  here  as  you  do  at  Cambridge."  And  Harry,  who  had  no 
such  sum  in  his  pocket  (for  his  half-year's  salary  was  always  pretty 
well  spent  before  it  was  due),  fell  back  with  rage  and  vexation  in 
his  heart  that  he  had  not  money  enough  to  stake. 

"I'll  stake  the  young  gentlemen  a  crown,"  says  the  Lord 
Mohun 's  captain. 

"I  thought  crowns  were  rather  scarce  with  the  gentlemen  of 
the  army,"  says  Harry. 

"Do  they  birch  at  College?"  says  the  Captain. 

"They  birch  fools,"  says  Harry,  "and  they  cane  bullies,  and 
ehej  fling  puppies  into  the  water." 

"Faith,  then,  there's  some  escapes  drowning,"  says  the  Captain, 
who  was  an  Irishman :  and  all  the  gentlemen  began  to  laugh,  and 
made  poor  Harry  only  more  angry. 

My  Lord  Mohun  presently  snuffed  a  candle.  It  was  when  the 
drawers  brought  in  fresh  bottles  and  glasses  and  were  in  the 
room — on  which  my  Lord  Viscount  said,  "The  deuce  take  you, 
Mohun,  how  damned  awkward  you  are!  Light  the  candle,  you 
drawer." 

"Damned  awkward  is  a  damned  awkward  expression,  my  Lord," 
says  the  other.  "Town  gentlemen  don't  use  such  words — or  ask 
pardon  if  they  do." 

"I'm  a  country  gentleman,"  says  my  Lord  Viscount. 

"I  see  it  by  your  manner,"  says  my  Lord  Mohun.  "No  man 
shall  say  damned  awkward  to  me.'* 

"I  fling  the  words  in  your  face,  my  Lord,"  says  the  other; 
"shall  I  send  the  cards  too?" 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen!  before  the  servants?"  cry  out  Colonel 
Westbury  and  my  Lord  Warwick  in  a  breath.  The  drawers  go  out 
of  the  room  hastily.  They  tell  the  people  below  of  the  quarrel 
upstairs. 

"Enough  has  been  said,"  says  Colonel  Westbury.  "Will  your 
Lordships  meet  to-morrow  morning?" 


202  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

"Will  my  Lord  Castlewood  withdraw  his  words?'*  asks  the  Earl 
of  Warwick, 

"My  Lord  Castlewood  will  be first,"  says  Colonel  Westbury. 

"Then  we  have  nothing  for  it.  Take  notice,  gentlemen,  there 
have  been  outrageous  words — reparation  asked  and  refused.*' 

"And  refused, "  says  my  Lord  Castlewood,  putting  on  his  hat. 
"Where  shall  the  meeting  be?  and  when?"' 

"Since  my  Lord  refuses  me  satisfaction,  which  I  deeply  regret, 
there  is  no  time  so  good  as  now,'"  says  my  Lord  Mohun.  "Let  us 
have  chairs  and  go  to  Leicester  Field." 

"Are  3^our  Lordship  and  I  to  have  the  honour  of  exchanging  a 
pass  or  two?*'  saj^s  Colonel  Westbury,  with  a  low  bow  to  my  Lord 
of  Warwick  and  Holland. 

"It  is  an  honour  for  me,*'  says  my  Lord,  with  a  profound  congee, 
"to  be  matched  with  a  gentleman  who  has  been  at  Mons  and 
Namur." 

"Will  your  Reverence  permit  me  to  give  you  a  lesson?"  says  the 
Captain. 

"Nay,  nay,  gentlemen,  two  on  a  side  are  plenty,"  says  Harry's 
patron.  "Spare  the  boy.  Captain  Macartney,"*  and  he  shook 
Harry's  hand — for  the  last  time,  save  one,  in  his  life. 

At  the  bar  of  the  tavern  all  the  gentlemen  stopped,  and  my  Lord 
Viscount  said,  laughing,  to  the  barwoman,  that  those  cards  set 
people  sadly  a-quarrelling ;  but  that  the  dispute  was  over  now,  and 
the  parties  were  all  going  away  to  my  Lord  Mohun*s  house  in  Bow 
Street,  to  drink  a  bottle  more  before  going  to  bed. 

A  half-dozen  of  chairs  were  now  called,  and  the  six  gentlemen 
stepping  into  them,  the  word  was  privately  given  to  the  cliairmen 
to  go  to  Leicester  Field,  where  the  gentlemen  were  set  down  oppo- 
site the  "Standard  Tavern."'  It  was  midnight,  and  the  town  was 
a-bed  by  this  time,  and  only  a  few  lights  in  the  windows  of  tlie 
houses;  but  the  night  was  bright  enough  for  the  unhappy  purpose 
wliich  the  disputants  came  about ;  and  so  all  six  entered  into  that 
fatal  square,  the  chairmen  standing  without  the  railing  and  keep- 
ing the  gate,  lest  an}-  persons  should  disturb  the  meeting. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  203 

All  that  happened  there  hath  been  matter  of  public  notoriety, 
and  is  recorded,  for  \varning  to  lawless  men,  in  the  annals  of  our 
country.  After  being  engaged  for  not  more  than  a  couple  of  min- 
utes, as  Harry  Esmond  thought  (though  being  occupied  at  the  time 
with  his  own  adversary's  point,  which  was  active,  he  may  not  have 
taken  a  good  note  of  time),  a  cry  from  the  chairmen  without,  who 
were  smoking  their  pipes,  and  leaning  over  the  railings  of  the  field 
as  they  watched  the  dim  combat  within,  announced  that  some 
catastrophe  had  happened,  which  caused  Esmond  to  drop  his  sword 
and  look  round,  at  which  moment  his  enemy  wounded  him  in  the 
right  hand.  But  the  young  man  did  not  heed  this  hurt  much,  and 
ran  up  to  the  place  where  he  saw  his  dear  master  was  down. 

My  Lord  Mohun  was  standing  over  him. 

"Are  you  much  hurt,  Frank?''  he  asked  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"I  believe  I'm  a  dead  man,"  my  Lord  said  from  the  ground. 

"No,  no,  not  so,"  says  the  other;  "and  I  call  God  to  witness. 
Frank  Esmond,  that  I  would  have  asked  your  pardon,  had  you  bat 
given  me  a  chance.  In — in  the  first  cause  of  our  falling  out,  I 
swear  that  no  one  w^as  to  blame  but  me,  and— and  that  my 
Lady " 

"Hush!"  says  my  poor  Lord  Viscount,  lifting  himself  on  his 
elbow  and  speaking  faintly.  "  'Twas  a  dispute  about  the  cards — 
the  cursed  cards.  Harry  my  boy,  are  you  wounded,  too?  God  help 
thee!  I  love  thee,  Harry,  and  thou  must  watch  over  my  little 
Frank — and — and  carry  this  little  heart  to  my  M-ife." 

And  here  my  dear  Lord  felt  in  his  breast  for  a  locket  he  w^ore 
there,  and,  in  the  act,  fell  back  fainting. 

We  were  all  at  this  terrified,  thinking  him  dead ;  but  Esmond 
and  Colonel  Westbury  bade  the  chairmen  come  into  the  field ;  and 
so  my  Lord  was  carried  to  one  Mr.  Aimes,  a  surgeon,  in  Long  Acre, 
who  kept  a  bath,  and  there  the  house  was  wakened  up,  and  the 
vrictim  of  this  quarrel  carried  in. 

My  Lord  Viscount  was  put  to  bed,  and  his  wound  looked  to  by 
.he  surgeon,  who  seemed  both  kind  and  skilful.  When  he  had 
ooked  to  my  Lord,  he  bandaged  up  Kiirrj-  Esmond's  hand  (who, 


204  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

from  loss  of  blood,  had  fainted  too,  in  the  house,  and  may  have 
been  some  time  unconscious) ;  and  when  the  young  man  came  to 
himself,  you  may  be  sure  he  eagerly  asked  what  news  there  was  of 
his  dear  patron ;  on  which  the  surgeon  carried  him  to  the  room 
where  the  Lord  Castlewood  lay ;  who  had  already  sent  for  a  priest, 
and  desired  earnestly,  they  said,  to  speak  with  his  kinsman.  He 
was  lying  on  a  bed,  very  pale  and  ghastly,  with  that  fixed,  fatal 
look  in  his  eyes,  which  betokens  death;  and  faintly  beckoning  all 
the  other  persons  away  from  him  with  his  hand,  and  crying  out 
•'Only  Harry  Esmond,"  the  hand  fell  powerless  down  on  tlie  cov- 
erlet, as  Harry  came  forward,  and  knelt  down  and  kissed  it. 

"Thou  art  all  but  a  priest,  Harrj-,"  my  Lord  Viscount  gasped 
out,  with  a  faint  smile,  and  pressure  of  his  cold  hand.  "Are  they 
all  gone?     Let  me  make  thee  a  death-bed  confession."' 

And  with  sacred  Death  waiting,  as  it  were,  at  the  bed-foot,  as 
an  awful  witness  of  his  words,  the  poor  dying  soul  gasped  out  his 
last  wishes  in  respect  of  his  family ; — his  humble  profession  of  con- 
trition for  his  faults; — and  his  charity  towards  the  world  he  was 
leaving.  Some  things  he  said  concerned  Harry  Esmond  as  much 
as  they  astonished  him.  And  my  Lord  Viscount,  sinking  visibly, 
was  in  the  midst  of  these  strange  confessions,  when  the  ecclesiastic 
for  whom  my  Lord  had  sent,  Mr.  Atterbury,  arrived. 

This  gentleman  had  reached  to  no  great  church  dignitj^  as  yet, 
but  was  only  preacher  at  St.  Bride's,  drawing  all  the  town  tliither 
by  his  eloquent  sermons.  He  was  godson  to  my  Lord,  vrho  had  been 
pupil  to  his  father;  had  paid  a  visit  to  Castlewood  from  Oxford 
more  than  once;  and  it  was  by  his  advice,  I  think,  that  Harry 
Esmond  was  sent  to  Cambridge,  rather  than  to  Oxford,  of  which 
place  Mr.  Atterbury,  though  a  distinguished  member,  spoke  but  ill. 

Our  messenger  found  the  good  priest  already  at  his  books  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  he  followed  the  man  eagerly  to  the 
house  where  my  poor  Lord  Viscount  lay — Esmond  watching  him, 
and  taking  his  dying  words  from  liis  mouth. 

My  Lord,  hearing  of  Mr.  Atterbury's  arrival,  and  squeezing 
Esmond's  hand,  asked  to  be  alone  with  the  priest;  and  Esmond  left 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  205 

them  there  for  this  solemn  interview.  You  may  be  sure  that  his 
own  prayers  and  grief  accompanied  that  dying  benefactor.  My 
Lord  had  said  to  him  that  Vvdiicli  confounded  the  young  man — 
informed  him  of  a  secret  which  greatly  concerned  him.  Indeed, 
after  hearing  it,  he  had  had  good  cause  for  doubt  and  dismay;  for 
mental  anguish  as  well  as  resolution.  While  the  colloquy  between 
Mr.  Atterbury  and  his  dying  penitent  took  place  within,  an 
immense  contest  of  perplexity  was  agitating  Lord  Castlewood's 
3'oung  companion. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour — it  may  be  more— Mr.  Atterbury  came 
out  of  the  room,  looking  very  hard  at  Esmond,  and  holding  a  paper. 

''He  is  on  the  brink  of  God's  awful  judgment,"  the  priest  whis- 
pered. "He  has  made  his  breast  clean  to  me.  He  forgives  and 
believes,  and  makes  restitution.  Shall  it  be  in  public?  Shall  we 
call  a  witness  to  sign  it?" 

"God  knows,"  sobbed  out  the  young  man,  "my  dearest  Lord  has 
only  done  me  kindness  all  his  life." 

The  priest  put  the  paper  into  Esmond's  hand.  He  looked  at  it. 
It  swam  before  his  eyes. 

"  'Tis  a  confession,"  he  said. 

"  'Tis  as  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Atterbury. 

There  was  a  fire  in  the  room,  where  the  cloths  were  drying  for 
the  baths,  and  there  lay  a  heap  in  a  corner,  saturated  with  the 
blood  of  my  dear  Lord's  body.  Esmond  went  to  the  fire,  and 
1  threw  the  paper  into  it.  "Twas  a  great  chimney  with  glazed  Dutch 
I  tiles.  How  we  remember  such  trifles  in  such  awful  moments!— the 
scrap  of  the  book  that  we  have  read  in  a  great  grief — the  taste  of 
that  last  dish  that  we  have  eaten  before  a  duel,  or  some  such 
supreme  meeting  or  parting.  On  the  Dutch  tiles  at  the  bagnio  was 
a  rude  picture  representing  Jacob  in  hairy  gloves,  cheating  Isaac 
of  Esau's  birthright.     The  burning  paper  lighted  it  up. 

•■'Tis  only  a  confession,  Mr.  Atterbury,"  said  the  young  man. 
He  leaned  his  head  against  the  mantelpiece:  a  burst  of  tears  came 
to  his  eyes.  They  were  the  first  he  had  shed  as  he  sat  by  his  lord, 
scared  by  this  calamity,  and  more  yet  by  what  the  poor  dying  gen- 


206  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

tleman  had  told  him,  and  shocked  to  think  that  he  should  be  the 
agent  of  bringing  this  double  misfortune  on  those  he  loved  best. 

"Let  us  go  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Esmond.  And  accordingly  they 
went  into  the  next  chamber,  where  by  this  time  the  dawn  had 
broke,  which  showed  my  Lord's  poor  pale  face  and  wild  appeal- 
ing eyes,  that  wore  that  awful  fatal  look  of  coming  dissolu- 
tion. The  surgeon  was  with  him.  He  went  into  the  chamber  as 
Atterbury  came  out  thence.  My  Lord  Viscount  turned  round  his 
sick  eyes  towards  Esmond.  It  choked  the  other  to  hear  that  rattle 
in  his  throat. 

"My  Lord  Viscount,*' says  Mr.   Atterbury,  "Mr.   Esmond  wants 
no  w^itnesses,  and  hath  burned  the  paper." 

"My  dearest  master!"  Esmond  said,  kneeling  down,  and  taking 
his  hand  and  kissing  it. 

My  Lord  Viscount  sprang  up  in  his  bed,  and  flung  his  arms 

round  Esmond.     "God  bl — bless "  was  all  he  said.     The  blood 

rushed  from  his  mouth,  deluging  the  young  man.  My  dearest 
Lord  was  no  more.  He  was  gone  with  a  blessing  on  his  lips,  and 
love  and  repentance  and  kindness  in  his  manly  heart. 

"Benedicti  benedicentes, "  says  Mr.  Atterbury,  and  the  young 
man,  kneeling  at  the  bedside,  groaned  out  an  "Amen." 

"Who  shall  take  the  news  to  her?"  was  Mr.  Esmond's  next 
thouglit.  And  on  this  he  besought  Mr.  Atterbury  to  bear  the  tid- 
ings to  Castlewood.  He  could  not  face  his  mistress  himself  with 
those  dreadful  news.  Mr.  Atterbury  complying  kindly,  Esmond 
writ  a  hasty  note  on  his  table-book  to  my  Lord's  man,  bidding  him 
get  the  horses  for  Mr.  Atterbury,  and  ride  with  him,  and  send 
Esmond's  own  valise  to  the  Gatehouse  prison,  whither  he  resolved 
to  go  and  give  himself  up. 


BOOK  II 

CONTAINS    MR.  ESMOND  S    MILITARY   LIFE,    AND    OTHER 
MATTERS  APPERTAINING  TO  THE  ESMOND  FAMILY 


CHAPTER  I 

I   AM   IN   PRISON,    AND   VISITED,    BUT   NOT   CONSOLED  THERE 

Those  may  imagine,  who  have  seen  death  untimely  strike  down 
persons  revered  and  beloved,  and  know-how  unavailing  consolation 
is,  what  was  Harry  Esmond's  anguish  after  being  an  actor  in  that 
ghastly  midnight  scene  of  blood  and  homicide.     He  could  not,  he 
felt,  have  faced  his  dear  mistress,  and  told  her  that  story.     He  was 
thankful  that  kind  Atterbury  consented  to  break  the  sad  news  to 
her;  but,  besides  his  grief,  which  he  took  into  prison  with  him,  he 
had  that  in  his  heart  which  secretly  cheered  and  consoled  him. 
I        A  great  secret  had  been  told  to  Esmond  by  his  unhappy  stricken 
kinsman,   lying  on  his  death- bed.     Were  he  to  disclose  it,  as  in 
equity  and  honovu-  he  might  do,   the  discovery  would  but  bring 
[greater  grief  upon  those  whom  he  loved  best  in  tlie  world,  and  who 
'!  were  sad  enough  already.     Should  he  bring  down  shame  and  per- 
plexity  upon  all  those  beings  to  whom  he  was  attached  by  so  manj^ 
ji  tender  ties  of  affection  and  gratitude?  degrade  his  father's  widow? 
I  impeach  and  sully  his   father's   and  kinsman's   honour?  and   for 
^jwhat?    For  a  barren  title,  to  be  worn  at  the  expense  of  an  Innocent 
i|boy,  the  son  of  his  dearest  benefactress.     He  had  debated  this 
matter  in  his  conscience,  whilst  his  poor  lord  was  making  his  dying 
confession.     On  one  side  were  ambition,  temptation,  justice  even, 
but  love,  gratitude,  and  fidelity  pleaded  on  the  other.     And  when 
the  struggle  was  over  in  Harry's  mind,  a  glow  of  righteous  happi- 
ness filled  it;  and  it  was  with   grateful  tears  in  his  eyes  that  he 

207 


208  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

returned  thanks  to  God  for  that  decision  which  he  liad  been  enabled 
to  make. 

"When  I  was  denied  by  my  own  blood,"  thought  he,  "thesy 
dearest  friends  received  and  cherished  me.  "When  I  was  a  name- 
less orplian  myself,  and  needed  a  protector,  I  found  one  in  yonder 
kind  soul,  who  has  gone  to  his  account  repenting  of  the  innocent 
wrong  he  has  done." 

And  with  this  consoling  thought  he  went  away  to  give  himself 
up  at  the  prison,  after  kissing  the  cold  lips  of  his  benefactor. 

It  was  on  the  third  day  after  he  had  come  to  the  Gatehouse 
prison  (where  he  lay  in  no  small  pain  from  his  wound,  which 
inflamed  and  ached  severely),  and  with  those  thoughts  and  resolu- 
tions that  have  been  just  spoke  of,  to  depress,  and  yet  to  console  i 
him,  that  H.  Esmond's  keeper  came  and  told  him  that  a  visitor  was 
asking  for  him,  and  though  he  could  not  see  her  face,  which  was 
enveloped  in  a  black  hood,  her  whole  figure,  too,  being  veiled  and 
covered  with  the  deepest  mourning,  Esmond  knew  at  once  that  his 
visitor  was  his  dear  mistress. 

He  got  up  from  his  bed,  whe^e  he  was  lying,  being  very  weak; 
and  advancing  towards  her  as  the  retiring  keeper  shut  the  door 
upon  him  and  his  guest  in  that  sad  place,  he  put  forward  his 
left  hand  (for  the  right  was  wounded  and  bandaged),  and  he 
would  have  taken  that  kind  one  of  his  mistress,  which  had  done  so 
many  oflfices  of  friendship  for  him  for  so  many  years. 

But  tlie  Lady  Castlewood  went  back  from  him,  putting  back 
her  hood,  and  leaning  against  the  great  stanchioned  door  which 
the  gaoler  had  just  closed  upon  them.  Her  face  was  ghastly  white, 
as  Esmond  saw  it,  looking  from  the  hood;  and  her  eyes,  ordinarily 
so  sweet  and  tender,  were  fixed  on  him  with  such  a  tragic  glance 
of  woe  and  anger,  as  caused  the  young  man,  unaccustomed  to 
unkiudness  from  that  person,  to  avert  his  own  glances  from  her 
face. 

"And  this,  Mr.  Esmond,"  she  said,  "is  where  I  see  you;  and  'tis 
to  this  you  have  brought  me!" 

"You  liave  come  to  console  me  in  my  calamity^  madam,"  said    i 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  209 

he  (though,  in  truth,  lie  scarce  knew  how  to  addrei?s  her,  his  emo- 
tions at  beholding  her  so  ove-rpowered  him). 

She  advanced  a  little,  but  stood  silent  and  trembling,  looking 
out  at  him  from  her  black  draperies,  with  her  small  white  hands 
clasped  together,  and  quivering  lips  and  hollow  eyes. 

"Not  to  reproach  me,"  he  continued  after  a  pause.  "My  grief 
is  sufficient  as  ii  is. " 

"Take  back  your  hand — do  not  touch  me  with  it!"  she  cried. 
"Look!  there's  blood  on  it!" 

"I  wish  they  had  taken  it  all,"  said  Esmond;  "if  you  are 
unkind  to  me." 

"Where  is  my  husband?"  she  broke  out.  "Give  me  back  my 
husband,  Henry !  Why  did  you  stand  by  at  midnight  and  see  him 
murdered?  Why  did  the  traitor  escape  who  did  it?  You,  the 
champion  of  our  house,  who  offered  to  die  for  us!  You  that  he 
loved  and  trusted,  and  to  whom  I  confided  him — you  that  vowed 
devotion  and  gratitude,  and  I  believed  you — yes,  I  believed  you — 
why  are  you  here,  and  my  noble  Francis  gone?  Why  did  you  come 
among  us?  You  have  only  brought  us  grief  and  sorrow;  and 
rej^entance,  bitter,  bitter  repentance,  as  a  return  for  our  love  and 
kindness.  Did  I  ever  do  you  a  wrong,  Henry?  You  were  but  an 
orplian  child  when  I  first  saw  you — when  he  first  saw  you,  who 
was  so  good,  and  noble,  and  trusting.  He  would  have  had  you  sent 
away,  but,  like  a  foolish  woman,  I  besought  him  to  let  you  stay. 
And  you  pretended  to  love  us,  and  we  believed  you — and  you  made 
our  house  wretched,  and  my  husband's  heart  went  from  me:  and  I 
lost  him  through  you — I  lost  him — the  husband  of  my  youth,  I  say. 
I  worshipped  him:  you  know  I  worshipped  him — and  he  was 
changed  to  me.  He  was  no  more  my  Francis  of  old — my  dear, 
dear  soldier.  He  loved  me  before  he  saw  you;  and  I  loved  him. 
Oh,  God  is  my  witness  how  I  loved  him!  Why  did  he  not  send  you 
from  among  us?  'Twas  only  his  kindness,  that  could  refuse  me 
iiOt»'ii»"g  then  And,  young  as  you  were — yes,  and  weak  and  alone 
— tliere  was  evil,  I  knew  there  was  evil  in  keeping  you.  I  read  it 
in  your  face  and  eyes.     I  saw  that  they  boded  liarm  to  us — and  it 


210  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

came,  I  knew  it  would.  ^Vhy  did  you  not  die  when  you  had  the 
smallpox — and  I  came  myself  and  watched  you,  and  you  didn't 
know  me  in  your  delirium — and  you  called  out  for  me,  though  I 
was  there  at  your  side?  All  that  has  happened  since  was  a  just 
judgment  on  my  wicked  heart — my  wicked  jealous  heart.  Oh,  I 
am  punished — awfully  punished !  My  husband  lies  in  his  blood — 
murdered  for  defending  me,  my  kind,  kind,  generous  lord — and 
you  were  by,  and  you  let  him  die,  Henry!"' 

"Tj^Jhese  words,  uttered  in  the  wildness  of  her  grief  by  one"  who 
tvas  ordinarily  quiet,  and  spoke  seldom  except  with  a  gentle  smile 
and  a  soothing  tone,  rung  in  Esmond's  ear;  and  'tis  said  that  he 
repeated  many  of  them  in  the  fever  into  which  he  now  fell  from 
his  wound,  and  perhaps  from  the  emotion  whicli  such  passionate, 
undeserved  upbraidings  caused  him.  It  seemed  as  if  his  very  sac- 
rifices and  love  for  this  lady  and  her  family  were  to  turn  to  evil 
and  reproach:  as  if  his  presence  amongst  them  was  indeed  a  cause 
of  grief,  and  the  continuance  of  his  life  but  woe  and  bitterness  to 
theirs.  As  the  Lady  Castiewood  spoke  bitterly,  rapidly,  without  a 
tear,  he  never  offered  a  word  of  appeal  or  remonstrance:  but  sat  at 
the  foot  of  his  prison-bed,  stricken  only  with  the  more  pain  at 
thinking  it  was  that  soft  and  beloved  hand  which  should  stab  him 
so  cruelly,  and  powerless  against  her  fatal  sorrow.  Her  words  as 
she  spoke  struck  the  chords  of  all  his  memory,  and  the  whole  of 
his  boyhood  and  youth  passed  within  him ;  whilst  his  lady,  so  fond 
and  gentle  but  yesterday — this  good  angel  whom  he  had  loved  and 
worshipped — stood  before  him,  pursuing  him  with  keen  words  and 
aspect  malign. 

"I  wish  I  were  in  my  Lord's  place,"'  he  groaned  out.  "It  was 
not  mj'  fault  that  I  was  not  there,  madam.  But  Fate  is  stronger 
than  all  of  us,  and  willed  what  has  come  to  pass.  It  had  been 
better  for  me  to  have  died  when  I  had  the  illness. ' 

"Yes,  Henry,"  said  she — and  as  she  spoke  she  looked  at  hlva 
with  a  glance  that  was  at  once  so  fond  and  so  sad,  that  the  young 
man,  tossing  up  his  arms,  wildly  fell  back,  hiding  his  head  in  the 
coverlet  of  the  bed.      As    he  turned  he  struck  against  the  wall 


TtlE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  211 

with  liis  wounded  hand,  displacing  the  ligature;  and  he  felt  the 
blood  rushing  again  from  the  wound.  He  remembered  feeling  a 
secret  pleasure  at  the  accident — and  thinking,  "Suppose  I  were 
to  end  no^v,  who  would  grieve  for  me?" 

This  hemorrhage,  of  the  grief  and  despair  in  which  the  luckless 
young  man  was  at  the  time  of  the  accident,  must  have  brought  on 
a  deliquium  presentl}' ;  for  he  had  scarce  any  recollection  after- 
wards, save  of  some  one,  his  mistress  probably,  seizing  his  hand — 
and  then  of  the  buzzing  noise  in  his  ears  as  he  awoke,  with  two  or 
three  persons  of  the  prison  around  his  bed,  whereon  he  lay  in  a 
pool  of  blood  from  his  arm. 

It  was  now  bandaged  up  again  by  the  prison  surgeon,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  place;  and  tlie  governor's  wife  and  servant,  kind 
people  both,  were  with  the  patient.  Esmond  saw  his  mistress  still 
in  the  room  when  he  awoke  from  his  trance;  but  she  went  away 
without  a  word;  though  the  governor's  wife  told  him  that  she  sat 
in  her  room  for  some  time  afterward,  and  did  not  leave  the  prison 
until  she  heard  that  Esmond  was  likely  to  do  well. 

Days  afterwards,  when  Esmond  was  brought  out  of  a  fever 
which  he  had,  and  which  attacked  him  that  night  pretty  sharply, 
the  honest  keeper's  wife  brought  her  patient  a  handkerchief  fresh 
washed  and  ironed,  and  at  the  corner  of  which  he  recognised  his 
mistress's  well-known  cipher  and  viscountess's  crown.  "The  lady 
had  bound  it  round  his  arm  when  he  fainted,  and  before  she  called 
for  help,"  the  keeper's  wife  said.  "Poor  lady!  she  took  on  sadly 
about  her  husband.  He  has  been  buried  to-day,  and  a  many  of  the 
coaches  of  the  nobility  went  with  him — my  Lord  Marlborough's 
and  my  Lord  Sunderland's,  and  many  of  the  officers  of  the  Guards, 
in  which  he  served  in  the  old  King's  time;  and  my  Lady  has  been 
with  her  two  children  to  the  King  at  Kensington,  and  asked  for 
justice  against  my  Lord  Tdohun,  who  is  in  hiding,  and  my  Lord  the 
Earl  of  "Warwick  and  Holland,  who  is  ready  to  give  himself  up  and 
take  his  trial." 

Such  was  the  news,  coupled  with  assertions  about  her  own  hon- 
esty and  that  of  Molly  her  maid,  who  would  never  have  stolen  a 


212  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

certain  trumpery  gold  sleeve-button  of  Mr.  Esmond's  that  was 
missing  after  his  fainting-fit,  that  the  keeper's  wife  brought  to  her 
lodger.  His  thoughts  followed  to  that  untimely  grave  the  brave 
heart,  the  kind  friend,  the  gallant  gentleman,  honest  of  word  and 
generous  of  thought  if  feeble  of  purpose  (but  are  his  betters  much 
stronger  than  he?),  who  had  given  him  bread  and  shelter  w^hen  he 
had  none ;  home  and  love  when  he  needed  them ;  and  who,  if  he 
had  kept  one  vital  secret  from  him,  had  done  that  of  which  he 
repented  ere  dying — a  wrong  indeed,  but  one  followed  by  remorse, 
and  occasioned  by  almost  irresistible  temptation. 

Esmond  took  the  handkerchief  when  his  nurse  left  him,  and 
very  likely  kissed  it,  and  looked  at  the  bauble  embroidered  in  the 
corner,  "It  has  cost  thee  grief  enough,"  he  thought,  "dear  lady, 
so  loving  and  so  tender.  Shall  I  take  it  from  thee  and  thy  chil- 
dren? No,  never!  Keep  it,  and  wear  it,  my  little  Frank,  my  pretty 
boy !  If  I  cannot  make  a  name  for  myself,  I  can  die  without  one. 
Some  day,  when  my  dear  mistress  sees  my  heart,  I  ^hall  be  righted ; 
or  if  not  here  or  now^,  why,  elsewhere;  where  Honour  doth  not 
follow  us,  but  where  Love  reigns  perpetual." 

'Tis  needless  to  relate  here,  as  the  reports  of  the  lawyers  already 
have  chronicled  them,  the  particulars  or  issue  of  that  trial  which 
ensued  upon  mj-  Lord  Castle  wood's  melancholy  homicide.  Of  the 
two  lords  engaged  in  that  sad  matter,  the  second,  my  Lord  the  Earl 
of  Warwick  and  Holland,  who  had  been  engaged  with  Colonel 
AVestbury,  and  wounded  by  him,  was  found  not  guilty  by  his  peers, 
before  whom  he  was  tried  (under  the  presidence  of  the  Lord  Stew^- 
ard.  Lord  Somers) ;  and  the  principal,  the  Lord  Mohun,  being  found 
guilty  of  the  manslaughter  (which,  indeed,  was  forced  upon  him, 
and  of  which  he  repented  most  [sincerely),  pleaded  his  clergy,  and 
so  w^as  discharged  without  any  penalty.  The  widow  of  the  slain 
nobleman,  as  it  was  told  us  in  prison,  showed  an  extraordinary 
spirit ;  and,  though  she  had  to  wait  for  ten  j-ears  before  her  son  was 
old  enough  to  compass  it,  declared  she  would  have  revenge  of  her 
husband's  murderer.  So  much  and  suddenly  had  grief,  anger,  and 
misfortune  appeared  to  change  her.  But  fortune,  good  or  ill,  as  I  take 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  213 

it,  does  not  change  men  and  women.  It  but  develops  their  char- 
acter. As  there  are  a  thousand  thoughts  lying  within  a  man  that 
he  does  not  know  till  he  takes  up  the  pen  to  write,  so  the  heart  is  a 
secret  even  to  him  (or  her)  who  has  it  in  his  own  breast.  Who  hath 
not  found  himself  surprised  into  revenge,  or  action,  or  passion,  for 
good  or  evil,  whereof  the  seeds  lay  within  him,  latent  and  unsus- 
pected, until  the  occasion  called  them  forth?  With  the  death  of 
her  lord,  a  change  seemed  to  come  over  the  whole  conduct  and 
mind  of  Lady  Castlewood ;  but  of  this  we  shall  speak  in  the  right 
season  and  anon. 

The  lords  being  tried  then  before  their  peers  at  Westminster, 
according  to  their  privilege,  being  brought  from  the  Tower  with 
state  processions  and  barges,  and  accompanied  by  lieutenants  and 
axemen,  the  commoners  engaged  in  that  melancholy  fray  took  their 
trial  at  Newgate,  as  became  them;  and,  being  all  found  guilty, 
pleaded  likewise  their  benefit  of  clergy.  The  sentence,  as  we  all 
know  in  these  cases,  is,  that  the  culprit  lies  a  year  in  prison,  or 
during  the  King's  pleasure,  and  is  burned  in  the  hand,  or  only 
stamped  with  a  cold  iron ;  or  this  part  of  the  punishment  is  alto- 
getiier  remitted  at  the  grace  of  the  Sovereign.  So  Harry  Esmond 
found  himself  a  criminal  and  a  prisoner  at  two-and-twenty  years 
old ;  as  for  the  two  colonels,  his  comrades,  they  took  the  matter 
very  lightly.  Duelling  was  a  part  of  their  business;  and  they 
could  not  in  honour  refuse  any  invitations  of  that  sort. 

But  the  case  was  different  with  Mr.  Esmond.  His  life  was 
changed  by  that  stroke  of  the  sword  which  destroyed  his  kind 
patron's.  As  he  lay  in  prison,  old  Doctor  Tusher  fell  ill  and  died; 
and  Lady  Castlewood  appointed  Thomas  Tusher  to  the  vacant  liv- 
ing ;  about  the  filling  of  which  she  had  a  thousand  times  fondly 
talked  to  Harry  Esmond:  how  they  never  should  part;  how  he 
should  educate  her  boy;  how  to  be  a  country  clergyman,  like 
saintly  George  Herbert  or  pious  Doctor  Ken,  was  the  happiest  and 
greatest  lot  in  life;  how  (if  he  were  obstinately  bent  on  it,  though, 
for  lier  part,  she  owned  rather  to  holding  Queen  Bess's  opinion,  that 
a  bishop  should  have  no  wife,  and  if  not  a  bishop  why  a  clergy- 


214  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

man?)  she  would  find  a  good  wife  for  Harry  Esmond;  and  so  on, 
with  a  hundred  pretty  prospects  told  by  fireside  evenings,  in  fond 
prattle  as  the  children  played  about  the  hall.  All  these  plans  were 
overthrown  now.  Thomas  Tuslier  wrote  to  Esmond,  as  he  lay  in 
prison,  announcing  that  his  patroness  had  conferred  upon  him  the 
living  his  reverend  father  had  held  for  many  years;  that  she  never, 
after  the  tragical  events  which  had  occurred  (whereof  Tom  spoke 
with  a  very  edifying  horror),  could  see  in  the  revered  Tusher's 
pulpit,  or  at  her  son's  table,  the  man  who  was  answerable  for  the 
father's  life :  that  her  Ladyship  bade  him  to  say  that  she  prayed  for 
her  kinsman's  repentance  and  his  worldly  happiness ;  that  he  was 
free  to  command  her  aid  for  any  scheme  of  life  which  he  might 
propose  to  himself;  but  that  on  this  side  of  the  grave  she  would  see 
him  no  more.  And  Tusher,  for  his  own  part,  added  that  Harry 
should  have  his  praj'ers  as  a  friend  of  his  youth,  and  commended 
him  whilst  he  was  in  prison  to  read  certain  works  of  theology, 
which  his  Reverence  pronounced  to  be  very  wholesome  for  sinners 
in  his  lamentable  condition. 

And  this  was  the  return  for  a  life  of  devotion — this  the  end  of 
years  of  affectionate  intercourse  and  passionate  fidelity!  Harry 
would  have  died  for  his  patron,  and  was  held  as  little  better  than 
his  murderer:  he  had  sacrificed,  she  did  not  know  how  much,  for 
his  mistress,  and  she  threw  him  aside;  he  had  endowed  her  family 
with  all  they  had,  and  she  talked  about  giving  him  alms  as  to  a 
menial!  The  grief  for  his  patron's  loss:  the  pains  of  his  own 
present  position,  and  doubts  as  to  the  future :  all  these  were  forgot- 
ten under  the  sense  of  the  consummate  outrage  which  he  had  to 
endure,  and  overpowered  by  tlie  superior  pang  of  that  torture. 

He  wtit  back  a  letter  to  Mr.  Tusher  from  his  prison,  c'ongratu- 
lating  his  Reverence  upon  his  appointment  to  the  living  of  Castle- 
wood:  sarcastically  bidding  him  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his 
admirable  father,  whose  gown  had  descended  upon  him ;  thanking 
her  Ladyship  for  her  offer  of  alms,  which  he  said  he  should  trust 
not  to  need;  and  beseeching  her  to  remember  that,   if  ever   her 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  215 

give  her  proofs  of  a  fidelity  which  had  never  wavered,  and  which 
ought  never  to  have  been  questioned  by  that  house.  "And  if  we 
ineet  no  more,  or  only  as  strangers  in  this  world,"  Mr.  Esmond  con- 
cluded, "a  sentence  against  the  cruelty  and  injustice  of  which  I 
disdain  to  appeal ;  hereafter  she  will  know  who  was  faithful  to  her, 
and  wliether  she  had  any  cause  to  siis'pect  the  love  and  devotion  of 
her  kinsman  and  servant." 

After  tlie  sending  of  this  letter,  the  poor  young  fellow's  mind 
was  more  at  ease  than  it  had  been  previously.  The  blow  had  been 
struck,  and  he  had  borne  it.  His  cruel  goddess  had  shaken  her 
wings  and  fled:  and  left  him  alone  and  friendless,  but  virtute  sua. 
And  he  had  to  bear  him  up,  at  once  the  sense  of  his  right  and  the 
feeling  of  his  wrongs,  his  honour  and  his  misfortune.  As  I  havei 
seen  men  waking  and  running  to  arms  at  a  sudden  trumpejt,  before 
emergency  a  manly  heart  leaps  up  resolute;  meets  the  threat- 
ening danger  with  undaunted  countenance ;  and,  whether  con-j 
quered  or  conquering,  faces  it  always.  Ah !  no  man  knows  hisi 
strength  or  his  weakness,  till  occasion  proves  them.  If  there  be\ 
some  thoughts  and  actions  of  his  life  from  the  memory  of  which  a 
man  shrinks  with  shame,  sure  there  are  some  which  he  may  be 
proud  to  own  and  remember:  forgiven  injuries,  conquered  tempta- 
tions (now  and  then),  and  difficulties  vanquished  by  endurance.         ' 

It  was  these  thoughts  regarding  the  living,  far  more  than  any 
.^reat  poignancy  of  grief  respecting  tlie  dead,  which  affected  Harry 
Esmond  whilst  in  prison  after  his  trial,  but  it  may  be  imagined 
that  he  could  take  no  comrade  of  misfortune  into  the  confidence  of 
his  feelings,  and  they  thought  it  was  remorse  and  sorrow  for  his 
patron's  loss  which  affected  the  young  man,  in  error  of  which 
opinion  he  chose  to  leave  them.  As  a  companion  he  was  so  moody 
and  silent  that  the  two  officers,  liis  fellow-sulferers,  left  him  to 
himself  mostly,  liked  little  A'ery  likely  what  they  knew  of  him,  con- 
soled themselves  with  dice,  cards,  and  the  bottle,  and  whiled  away 
their  own  captivity  in  their  own  way.  It  seemed  to  Esmond  as  if 
he  lived  years  in  that  j^rison:  and  was  changed  and  aged  when  he 
came  out  of  it.     At  certain  periods  of  life  weji3ie_years  of  emotion 


216  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

in  a  few  weeks— and  look  back  on  those  times,  as  on  great  gaps 
between  the  old  life  and  the  new.  You  do  not  know  how  much 
you  suffer  in  those  critical  maladies  of  the  heart,  until  the  disease 
is  over  and  rou  look  back  on  it  afterwards.  During  the  time,  the 
suffering  is  at  least  sufferable.  The  day  passes  in  more  or  less  of 
pain,  and  the  night  wears  away  somehow.  "Tis  only  in  after  days 
that  we  see  what  the  danger  has  been— as  a  man  out  a-hunting  or 
riding  for  his  life  looks  at  a  leap,  and  wonders  how  he  should  have 
survived  the  taking  of  it.  O  dark  months  of  grief  and  rage!  of 
wrong  and  cruel  endurance  I  He  is  old  now  wlio  recalls  you.  Long 
ago  he  has  forgiven  and  blest  the  soft  hand  that  wounded  him:  but 
the  mark  is  there,  and  the  wound  is  cicatrised  only — no  time,  tears, 
caresses,  or  repentance  can  obliterate  the  scar.  "We  are  indocile  to 
put  up  with  grief,  however.  Eeficimus  rates  quassas:  we  tempt  the 
ocean  again  and  again,  and  try  upon  new  ventures.  Esmond 
thought  of  his  early  time  as  a  noviciate,  and  of  this  past  trial  as 
an  initiation  before  entering  into  life — as  our  young  Indians 
undergo  tortures  silently  before  they  pass  to  the  rank  of  warriors 
in  the  tribe. 

The  officers,  meanwliile,  who  were  not  let  into  the  secret  of  the 
grief  which  was  gnawing  at  the  side  of  their  silent  young  friend, 
and  being  accustomed  to  such  transactions,  in  which  one  comrade 
or  another  was  daily  paying  the  forfeit  of  the  sword,  did  not,  of 
course,  bemoan  themselves  very  inconsolably  about  the  fate  of 
their  late  companion  in  arms.  This  one  told  stories  of  former 
adventures  of  love,  or  war,  or  pleasure,  in  which  poor  Frank 
Esmond  had  been  engaged;  t'other  recollected  how  a  constable  had 
been  bilked,  or  a  tavern-bully  beaten:  whilst  my  Lord's  poor  widow 
was  sitting  at  his  tomb  worshipping  him  as  an  actual  saint  and 
spotless  hero — so  the  visitors  said  who  had  news  of  Lady  Castle- 
wood  ;  and  "Westbury  and  Macartney  had  pretty  nearly  had  all  the 
town  to  come  and  see  them. 

The  duel,  its  fatal  termination,  the  trial  of  the  two  peers  and 
the  three  commoners  concerned,  had  caused  the  greatest  excite- 
ment in  the  town.     The  prints  and  news-letters  were  full  of  them 


4 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  217 

The  three  gentlemen  in  Newgate  were  almost  as  much  crowded  as 
the  Bishops  in  the  Tower,  or  a  highwayman  before  execution. 
We  w^ere  allowed  to  live  in  the  Governor's  house,  as  hath  been 
said,  both  before  trial  and  after  condemnation,  w^aiting  the  King's 
pleasure;  nor  was  the  real  cause  of  the  fatal  quarrel  known,  so 
closely  had  my  Lord  and  the  two  other  persons  who  knew  it  kept 
the  secret,  but  every  one  imagined  that  the  origin  of  the  meeting 
was  a  gambling  dispute.  Except  fresh  air,  the  prisoners  had,  upon 
payment,  most  things  they  could  desire.  Interest  was  made  that 
they  should  not  mix  with  the  vulgar  convicts,  whose  ribald 
choruses  and  loud  laughter  and  curses  could  be  heard  from  their 
own  part  of  the  prison,  where  they  and  the  miserable  debtors  were 
confined  pell-melL 


CHAPTER  II 

I  COME  TO  THE  END  OF  MY  CAPTIVITY,  BUT  NOT  OF  MY  TROUBLE 

Among  the  company  wliich  came  to  visit  the  two  officers  was 
^a  old  acquaintance  of  Harry  Esmond;  tliat  gentleman  of  the 
■  Guards,  namely,  who  had  been  so  kind  to  Harry  when  Captain 
Westbury's  troop  had  been  quartered  at  Castiewood  more  than 
seven  years  before.  Dick  the  Scholar  was  no  longer  Dick  the 
Trooper  now,  but  Captain  Steele  of  Lucas's  Fusileers,  and  secretary 
to  my  Lord  Cutts,  that  famous  officer  of  King  William's,  the  bra- 
vest and  most  beloved  man  of  the  English  army.  The  two  jolly 
prisoners  had  been  drinking  with  a  party  of  friends  (for  our  cellar, 
and  that  of  the  keepers  of  Newgate  too,  were  supplied  with  end- 
less hampers  of  burgundy  and  champagne  that  the  friends  of  the 
Colonels  sent  in);  and  Harry,  having  no  vrish  for  their  drink  or 
their  conversation,  being  too  feeble  in  health  for  the  one  and  too 
sad  in  spirits  for  the  other,  was  sitting  apart  in  his  little  room, 
reading  such  books  as  he  had,  one  evening,  when  honest  Colonel 
Westbury,  fluslied  with  liquor,  and  always  good-humoured  in  and 
out  of  his  cups,  came  laughing  into  Harry's  closet  and  said,  "Ho, 
young  Killjoy !  here's  a  friend  come  to  see  thee;  he'll  pray  with 
tliee,  or  hell  drink  with  thee;  or  he'll  drink  and  pray  turn  about. 
Dick,  my  Christian  hero,  here's  the  little  scholar  of  Castle- 
wood." 

Dick  came  up  and  kissed  Esmond  on  both  cheeks,  imparting  a 
strong  perfume  of  burnt  sack  along  with  his  caress  to  the  young 
man. 

"What!  is  this  the  little  man  that  used  to  talk  Latin  and  fetch 
our  bowls?  How  tall  thou  art  grown!  I  protest  I  should  have 
known  thee  anywhere.  And  so  you  have  turned  ruff.an  and 
fighter';  and  wanted  to  measure  swords  v.-ith  Mohun,  did  you?    I 


I 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  2l9 

protest  that  Mohiin  said  at  the  Guard  dinner  yesterday,  where 
there  was  a  pretty  company  of  us,  that  the  young  fellow  wanted 
to  fight  him,  and  was  the  better  man  of  the  two." 

"I  wish  we  could  have  tried  and  proved -it,  Mr.  Steele,"  says 
Esmond,  thinking  of  his  dead  benefactor,  and  his  eyes  filling  with 
tears. 

With  the  exception  of  that  one  cruel  letter  vrhich  he  had  from 
his  mistress,  Mr.  Esmond  heard  nothing  from  her,  and  she  seemed 
determined  to  execute  her  resolve  of  parting  from  him  and  dis- 
owning him.  But  he  had  news  of  her,  such  as  it  was,  which  Mr. 
Steele  assiduously  brought  him  from  the  Prince's  and  Princess's 
Court,  where  our  honest  Captain  had  been  advanced  to  the  post  of 
gentleman  waiter.  When  off  duty  there,  Captain  Dick  often  came 
to  console  his  friends  in  captivity;  a  good  nature  and  a  friendly 
disposition  towards  all  who  were  in  ill-fortune  no  doubt  prompting 
him  to  make  his  visits,  and  good  fellowship  and  good  wine  to  pro- 
long them. 

"Faith,"  says  Westbury,  "the  little  scholar  was  the  first  to  begin 
the  quarrel— I  mind  me  of  it  now — at  Lockit's.  I  always  hated 
that  fellow  Mohun.  What  was  the  real  cause  of  the  quarrel 
betwixt  him  and  poor  Frank?    I  would  wager  'twas  a  woman." 

"  'Twas  a  quarrel  about  play — on  my  word,  about  play,''  Harry 
said.  "My  poor  lord  lost  great  sums  to  his  guest  at  Castlewood. 
Angry  words  passed  between  them;  and  though  Lord  Castlewood 
was  the  kindest  and  most  pliable  soul  alive,  his  spirit  was  very 
high;  and  hence  that  meeting  which  has  brought  us  all  here,"  says 
Mr.  Esmond,  resolved  never  to  acknowledge  that  there  had  ever 
been  any  other  cause  but  cards  for  the  duel. 

"I  do  not  like  to  use  bad  words  of  a  nobleman,"  says  West- 
bury;  "but  if  my  Lord  Mohun  were  a  commoner,  I  would  say, 
'twas  a  pity  he  was  not  hanged.  He  ^vas  familiar  with  dice  and 
women  at  a  time  other  boys  are  at  school  being  birched ;  he  was  as 
wicked  as  the  oldest  rake,  years  ere  he  had  done  growing;  and 
handled  a  sword  and  a  ^oil,  and  a  bloody  one  too,  before  he  ever 
used  a  razor.     He  held  poor  Will   Mountford  in  talk  that  night 


220  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

when  bloody  Dick  Hill  ran  him  through.  He  will  come  to  a  bad 
end,  will  that  young  lord;  and  no  end  is  bad  enough  for  him,"  says 
honest  Mr.  Westbury:  whose  prophecy  was  fulfilled  twelve  years 
after,  upon  that  fatal  day  when  Mohun  fell,  dragging  down  one  of 
the  bravest  and  greatest  gentlemen  in  England  in  his  fall. 

From  Mr.  Steele,  then,  who  brought  the  public  rumour,  as  well 
as  his  own  private  intelligence,  Esmond  learned  the  movements  of 
liis  unfortunate  mistress.  Steele's  heart  was  of  very  inflammable 
composition;  and  the  gentleman  usher  spoke  in  terms  of  boundless 
admiration  both  of  the  widow  (that  most  beautiful  woman,  as  lie 
said)  and  of  her  daughter,  who,  in  the  Captain's  eyes,  was  a  still 
greater  paragon.  If  the  pale  widow,  whom  Captain  Richard,  in 
his  poetic  rapture  compared  to  a  Niobe  in  tears — to  a  Sigismunda — 
to  a  weeping  Belvidera — was  an  object  the  most  lovely  and  pathetic 
v/hicli  his  eyes  had  ever  beheld,  or  for  which  his  heart  had  melted, 
even  her  ripened  perfections  and  beauty  were  as  nothing  compared 
to  the  promise  of  that  extreme  loveliness  which  the  good  Captain 
saw  in  her  daughter.  It  was  matre  pulcra,  filia  pulcrior.  Steele 
composed  sonnets  whilst  he  was  on  duty  in  his  Prince's  ante- 
chamber, to  the  maternal  and  filial  charms.  He  would  speak  for 
hours  about  them  to  Harry  Esmond;  and,  indeed,  he  could  have 
chosen  few  subjects  more  likely  to  interest  the  unhappy  young 
man,  whose  heart  was  now  as  always  devoted  to  these  ladies;  and 
who  was  thankful  to  all  who  loved  them,  or  praised  them,  or 
wished  them  well. 

Not  that  his  fidelity  was  recompensed  by  any  answering  kind- 
ness, or  show  of  relenting  even,  on  the  part  of  a  mistress  obdurate 
now  after  ten  years  of  love  and  benefactions.  The  poor  young  man 
getting  no  an.swer,  save  Tusher's,  to  that  letter  which  he  had  writ- 
ten, and  being  too  proud  to  write  more,  opened  a  part  of  his  heart 
to  Steele,  than  whom  no  man,  when  unhappy,  could  find  a  kinder 
hearer,  or  more  f riendl}^  emissary ;  described  (in  words  which  were 
no  doubt  pathetic,  for  they  came  into  pectore,  and  caused  honest 
Dick  to  weep  plentifully)  his  youth,  his  constancy,  his  fond  devo- 
tion to  that  )iousehold  which  bad  reared  him;  his  atlectiou,  how 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  321 

earned,  and  how  tenderly  requited  until  but  yesterday,  and  (as  far 
as  he  might)  the  circumstances  and  causes  for  which  that  sad 
quarrel  had  made  of  Esmond  a  prisoner  under  sentence,  a  widow 
and  orphans  of  those  whom  in  Hfe  he  held  dearest.  In  terms  that 
might  well  move  a  harder-hearted  man  than  young  Esmond's  con- 
fidant— for,  indeed,  the  speaker's  own  heart  was  half  broke  as  he 
uttered  them — he  described  a  part  of  what  had  taken  place  in  that 
only  sad  interview  which  his  mistress  had  granted  him ;  how  she  had 
left  him  with  anger  and  almost  imprecation,  whose  words  and 
thoughts  until  then  had  been  only  blessing  and  kindness;  how  she 
had  accused  him  of  the  guilt  of  that  blood,  in  exchange  for  which 
he  would  cheerfully  have  sacrificed  his  own  (indeed,  in  this  the 
Lord  Mohun,  the  Lord  Warwick,  and  all  the  gentlemen  engaged,  as 
well  as  the  common  rumour  out  of  doors— Steele  told  him — bore 
out  the  luckless  young  man) ;  and  with  all  his  heart,  and  tears,  he 
besought  Mr.  Steele  to  inform  his  mistress  of  her  kinsman's  unhap- 
piness,  and  to  deprecate  that  cruel  anger  she  showed  him.  Half 
frantic  with  grief  at  the  injustice  done  him,  and  contrasting  it 
with  a  thousand  soft  recollections  of  love  and  confidence  gone  by, 
that  made  his  present  misery  inexpressibly  more  bitter,  the  poor 
wretch  passed  many  a  lonely  day  and  wakeful  night  in  a  kind  of 
powerless  despair  and  rage  against  his  iniquitous  fortune.  It  was 
the  softest  hand  that  struck  him,  the  gentlest  and  most  compas- 
sionate nature  that  persecuted  him.  "I  would  as  lief,"  he  said, 
"have  pleaded  guilty  to  the  murdei,  and  have  suffered  for  it  like 
any  other  felon,  as  have  to  endure  the  torture  to  which  my  mistress 
subjects  me." 

Although  the  recital  of  Esmond's  story,  and  his  passionate 
appeals  and  remonstrances,  drew  so  many  tears  from  Dick  who 
heard  them,  they  had  no  effect  upon  the  person  whom  they  were 
designed  to  move.  Esmond's  ambassador  came  back  from  the  mis- 
sion with  which  the  poor  young  gentleman  had  charged  him,  with 
a  sad  blank  face  and  a  shake  of  the  head,  which  told  that  there 
was  no  hope  for  the  prisoner;  and  scarce  a  wretched  culprit  in  that 
prison  of  Newgate  ordered  for  execution,   and  trembling  for  a 


282  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

reprieve,  felt  more  cast  down  than  Mr.  Esmond,  innocent  and 
condemned. 

As  had  been  arranged  between  the  prisoner  and  his  counsel  in 
thair  consultations,  Mr.  Steele  had  gone  to  the  Dowager's  house  in 
Chelsey,  where  it  has  been  said  the  widow  and  her  orphans  were, 
had  seen  my  Lady  Viscountess,  and  pleaded  the  cause  of  her 
unfortunate  kinsman.  "And  I  think  I  spoke  well,  my  poor  boy," 
says  Mr.  Steele;  "for  who  would  not  speak  well  in  such  a  cause, 
and  before  so  beautiful  a  judge?  I  did  not  see  the  lovely  Beatrix 
(sure  her  famous  namesake  of  Florence  was  never  half  so  beauti- 
ful), only  the  young  Viscount  was  in  the  room  with  the  Lord 
Churchill,  my  Lord  of  Marlborough's  eldest  son.  But  these  young 
gentlemen  went  off  to  the  garden ;  I  could  see  them  from  the  win- 
dow tilting  at  each  other  with  poles  in  a  mimic  tournament  (grief 
touches  the  young  but  lightly,  and  I  remember  that  I  beat  a  drum 
at  the  coflfin  of  my  own  father).  My  Lady  Viscountess  looked  out 
at  th6  two  boys  at  their  game  and  said,  'You  see,  sir,  children  are 
taught  to  use  weapons  of  death  as  to3's,  and  to  make  a  sport  of 
murder;'  and  as  she  spoke  she  looked  so  lovely,  and  stood  there  in 
herself  so  sad  and  beautiful  an  instance  of  that  doctrine  whereof  I 
am  a  humble  preacher,  that  had  I  not  dedicated  my  little  volume 
of  the  'Christian  Hero* — (I  perceive,  Harry,  thou  hast  not  cut  the 
leaves  of  it.  The  sermon  is  good,  believe  me,  though  the  preacher's 
life  may  not  answer  it) — I  say,  hadn't  I  dedicated  the  volume  to 
Lord  Cutts,  I  would  have  asked  permission  to  place  her  Ladyship's 
name  on  the  first  page.  I  think  I  never  saw  such  a  beautiful 
violet  as  that  of  her  eyes,  Harry.  Her  complexion  is  of  the  pink 
of  the  blush-rose,  she  hath  an  exquisite  turned  wrist,  and  dimpled 
hand,  and  I  make  no  doubt '' 

"Did  you  come  to  tell  me  about  the  dimples  on  my  Lady's 
hand?"  broke  out  Mr.  Esmond  sadly. 

"A  lovely  creature  in  affliction  seems  always  doubly  beautiful 
to  me,*'  says  the  poor  Captain,  w^ho  indeed  was  but  too  often  in  a 
state  to  see  double,  and  so  checked  he  resumed  the  interrupted 
rliread  of  his  story.     "As  I  spoke  my  business,"  Mr.  Steele  said, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  233 

"and  narrated  to  your  mistress  what  all  the  world  knovrs,  and  the 
other  side  hath  been  eager  to  acknowledge — that  you  had  tried  to  put 
yourself  between  the  two  lords,  and  to  take  your  patron's  quarrel 
on  your  own  point ;  I  recounted  the  general  praises  of  your  gal- 
lantry, besides  my  Lord  Mohun's  particular  testimony  to  it;  I 
thought  the  widow  listened  with  some  interest,  and  her  eyes— I 
have  never  seen  such  a  violet,  Harry — looked  up  at  mine  once  or 
twice.  But  after  I  had  spoken  on  this  then^ for  a  while  she  sud- 
denly broke  away  with  a  cry  of  grief.  'I  would  to  God,  sir,'  she 
said,  'I  had  never  heard  that  word  gallantry  which  you  use,  or 
known  the  meaning  of  it.  My  Lord  might  have  been  here  but  for 
that ;  my  home  might  be  happy ;  my  poor  boy  have  a  father.  It  was 
what  you  gentlemen  call  gallantry  came  into  my  home,  and  drove 
my  husband  on  to  the  cruel  sword  that  killed  him.  You  should  not 
speak  the  word  to  a  Christian  woman,  sir,  a  poor  widowed  mother 
of  orphans,  whose  home  w^as  happy  until  the  world  came  into  it — 
the  wicked  godless  world,  that  takes  the  blood  of  the  innocent,  and 
lets  the  guilty  go  free. ' 

"As  the  afflicted  lady  spoke  in  this  strain,  sir,"  Mr.  Steele  con- 
tinued, "it  seemed  as  if  indignation  moved  her,  even  more  than 
grief.  'Compensation!'  she  w^ent  on  passionately,  her  cheeks  and 
eyes  kindling;  'what  compensation  does  your  world  give  the  widow 
for  her  husband,  and  the  children  for  the  murder  of  their  father? 
The  wretch  who  did  the  deed  has  not  even  a  punishment.  Con- 
science! what  conscience  has  he,  who  can  enter  the  house  of  a 
friend,  whisper  falsehood  and  insult  to  a  woman  that  never  harmed 
him,  and  stab  the  kind  heart  that  trusted  him?  My  Lord— my  Lord 
Wretch's,  my  Lord  Villain's,  my  Lord  Murderer's  peers  meet  to  try 
him,  and  they  dismiss  him  with  a  word  or  two  of  reproof,  and  send 
him  into  the  world  again,  to  pursue  women  with  lust  and  false- 
hood, and  to  murder  unsuspecting  guests  that  harbour  him.  That 
day,  my  Lord — my  Lord  Murderer— (I  will  never  name  him) — was 
let  loose,  a  woman  was  executed  at  Tyburn  for  stealing  in  a  shop. 
But  a  man  may  rob  another  of  his  life,  or  a  lady  of  her  honour,  and 
shall  pay  no  penalty !     I  take  my  child,  run  to  the  tlirone,  and  on 


224  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

my  knees  ask  for  justice,  and  the  King  refuses  me.  The  King!  he 
is  no  king  of  mine — he  never  shall  be.  He,  too,  robbed  the  throne 
from  the  king  his  father — the  true  king — and  he  has  gone  unpun- 
ished,  as  the  great  do. ' 

"I  then  thought  to  speak  for  you,"  Mr.  Steele  continued,  "and 
I  interposed  by  saying,  'There  was  one,  madam,  who,  at  least, 
would  have  put  his  own  breast  between  your  husband's  and  my 
Lord  Mohun's  sword.  Y^our  poor  young  kinsman,  Harry  Esmond, 
liath  told  me  that  he  tried  to  draw  the  quarrel  on  himself.' 

"  'Are  you  come  from  him?'  asked  the  lady  (so  Mr.  Steele  went 
on),  rising  up  with  a  great  severity  and  stateliness.  'I  thought  you 
had  come  from  the  Princess.  I  saw  Mr.  Esmond  in  his  prison,  and 
bade  him  farewell.  He  brought  misery  into  my  house.  He  never 
should  have  entered  it.' 

"  'Madam,  madam,  he  is  not  to  blame,'  I  interposed,"  continued 
3Ir.  Steele. 

"  'Do  I  blame  him  to  you,  sirf  asked  the  widow.  'If  'tis  he  who 
sent  you,  say  that  I  have  taken  counsel,  where' — she  spoke  with  a 
very  pallid  cheek  now,  and  a  break  in  her  voice — 'where  all  who 
ask  may  have  it; — and  that  it  bids  me  to  part  from  him,  and  to  see 
him  no  more.  We  met  in  the  prison  for  the  last  time — at  least  for 
years  to  come.  It  may  be,  in  years  hence,  when — when  our  knees 
and  our  tears  and  our  contrition  have  changed  our  sinful  hearts, 
sir,  and  wrought  our  pardon,  we  may  meet  again — but  not  now. 
After  what  has  passed,  I  could  not  bear  to  see  him.  I  wish  him 
well,  sir ;  but  I  wish  him  farewell  too ;  and  if  he  has  that — that 
regard  towards  us  which  he  speaks  of,  I  beseech  him  to  prove  it  by 
obeying  me  in  this.' 

"  'I  shall  break  the  young  man's  heart,  madam,  by  this  hard  sen- 
tence,' "  Mr.  Steele  said. 

"The  lady  shook  her  head,"  continued  my  kind  scholar.  "  'The 
hearts  of  young  men,  Mr.  Steele,  are  not  so  made,'  she  said.  'Mr. 
Esmond  will  find  other — other  friends.  The  mistress  of  this  house 
has  relented  very  much  towards  the  late  lord's  son,'  she  added  with 
a  blush,  'and  has  promised  me, — that  is,  has  promised  that  she  will 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  225 

oare  for  his  fortune.  Whilst  I  live  in  it,  after  the  horrid,  horrid 
deed  which  has  passed,  Castlewood  must  never  be  a  home  to 
him — never.  Nor  would  I  have  him  write  to  me — except — no — I 
would  have  him  never  write  to  me,  nor  see  him  more.     Give  him, 

if  you  will,  my  parting Hush !    not  a  word  of  this  before  my 

daughter.' 

"Here  the  fair  Beatrix  entered  from  the  river,  with  her  cheeks 
flushing  with  health,  and  looking  only  the  more  lovely  and  fresh  for 
the  mourning  habiliments  which  she  wore.  And  my  Lady 
Viscountess  said — 

"  'Beatrix,  this  is  Mr.  Steele,  gentleman-usher  to  the  Prince's 
Highness.  When  does  your  new  comedy  appear,  Mr.  Steele?'  I 
hope  tliou  wilt  be  out  of  prison  for  the  first  night,  Harry." 

The  sentimental  Captain  concluded  his  sad  tale,  saying,  "Faith, 
the  beauty  of  filia  pulcrior  drove  pulcram  matrem  out  of  my  head ! 
and  yet  as  I  came  down  the  river,  and  thought  about  the  pair,  the 
pallid  dignity  and  exquisite  grace  of  the  matron  had  the  upper- 
most, and  I  thought  her  even  more  noble  than  the  virgin!" 


The  party  of  prisoners  lived  very  well  in  Newgate,  and  with 
comforts  very  different  to  those  which  were  awarded  to  the  poor 

I  wretches  there  (his  insensibility  to  their  misery,  their  gaiety  still 
more  frightful,  their  curses  and  blasphemy,  hath  struck  with  a  kind 

j  of  shame  since — as  proving  how  selfish,  during  his  imprisonment, 

II  his  own  particular  grief  was,  and  how  entirely  the  thoughts  of  it 
I  absorbed  him) :  if  the  three  gentlemen  lived  well  under  the  care  of 
|j  the  Warden  of  Newgate,  it  was  because  they  paid  well ;  and  indeed 
1^  the  cost  at  the  dearest  ordinary  or  the  grandest  tavern  in  London 
;  could  not  have  furnished  a  longer  reckoning,  than  our  host  of  the 
I  "Handcuff  Inn" — as  Colonel  Westbury  called  it.  Our  rooms  were 
I  the  three  in  the  gate  over  Newgate — on  the  second  storey  looking 
I  up  Newgate  Street  towards  Cheapside  and  Paul's  Church.  And  we 
i  had  leave  to  walk  on  the  roof,  and  could  see  thence  Smithfield  and 
i,  the  Bluecoat  Boys'  School,  Gardens,  and  the  Chartreux,  where,  as 


226  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Harry  Esmond  remembered,  Dick  the  Scholar  and  his  friend  Tom 
Tusher  had  had  their  schooling. 

Harry  could  never  have  paid  his  share  of  that  prodigious  heavy 
reckoning  which  my  landlord  brought  to  his  guests  once  a  week: 
for  he  had  but  three  pieces  in  his  pockets  that  fatal  night  before 
the  duel,  when  the  gentlemen  were  at  cards,  and  offered  to  play 
five.  But  whilst  he  was  yet  ill  at  the  Gatehouse,  after  Lady  Castle- 
wood  had  visited  him  there,  and  before  his  trial,  there  came  one  in 
an  orange-tawny  coat  and  blue  lace,  the  livery  which  the  Esmonds 
always  w^ore,  and  brought  a  sealed  packet  for  Mr.  Esmond,  which 
contained  twenty  guineas,  and  a  note  saying  that  a  counsel  had 
been  appointed  for  him,  and  that  more  money  would  be  forthcom- 
ing whenever  he  needed  it. 

'Twas  a  queer  letter  from  the  scholar  as  she  was,  or  as  she  called 
herself:  the  Dowager  Viscountess  Castle  wood,  written  in  the 
strange  barbarous  French  which  she  and  many  other  fine  ladies  of 
that  time — witness  her  Grace  of  Portsmouth — employed.  Indeed, 
spelling  was  not  an  article  of  general  commodity  in  che  world 
then,  and  my  Lord  Marlborough's  letters  can  show  that  he,  for  one, 
had  but  a  little  share  of  this  part  of  grammar:— 

"MONG  CoussiN,"  my  Lady  Viscountess  Dowager  wrote,  "je  scay- 
que  vous  vous  etes  bravement  batew  et  grievenient  blessay — du  coste 
de  feu  M.  le  V  icomte.  M.  le  Compte  de  Varique  ne  se  playt  qua  parlay 
de  vous :  M.  de  Moon  augy=  II  di  que  vous  avay  voulew  vous  bastre 
avecque  luy — que  vous  estes  plus  fort  que  luy  fur  rayscrimnie— 
quil'y  a  surtout  certaine  Botte  que  vous  scavay  quil  n'a  jammay 
sceu  paria}' :  et  que  e'en  eut  ete  fay  de  luy  si  vouseluy  vous  vous 
fussiay  battews  ansamb.  Aincy  ce  pauv  Vicompte  est  mort.  Mort 
et  peutayt— Mon  coussin,  mon  coussin !  jay  dans  la  tayste  que  vous 
n'estes  quung  pety  Monst — angcy  que  les  Esmonds  ong  tousjours 
este.  La  veuve  est  chay  moy.  J'ay  recuilly  cet'  panve  famme, 
Elle  est  furieuse  cont  vous,  allans  tous  les  jours  chercher  ley  Roy 
(d'icy)  demandant  a  gran  cri  revanche  pour  son  Mary.  Elle  ne 
veux  voj're  ni  entende  parlay  de  vous :   pourtant  elle  ne  fay  qu'en 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  22^. 

parlay  milfoy  par  jour.  Quand  vous  seray  hor  prison  venay  nu 
voyre.  J'auray  soing  de  vous.  Si  cette  petite  Prude  veut  se  defaire 
de  song  pety  Monste  (Helas  je  craing  quil  ne  soytrotar!)  je  m'en 
chargeray.     J 'ay  encor  quelqu  interay  et  quelques  escus  de  costay. 

"La  Veuve  se  racconimode  avec  Miladi  Marlboro  qui  est  tout 
puigante  avecque  la  Princesse  Anne.  Get  dam  senteraysent  pour  la 
petite  prude;  qui  pourctant  a  un  fi  du  mesme  asge  que  vous  savay. 

"En  sortant  de  prisong  venez  icy.  Je  ne  puy  vous  recevoir 
chaymoy  a  cause  des  mechansetes  du  monde,  may  pre  du  moy  vous 
aurez  logement.  Isabelle,  Viscomtesse  d'Esmond." 

Marchioness  of  Esmond  this  lady  sometimes  called  herself,  in 
virtue  of  that  patent  which  had  been  given  by  the  late  King  James 
to  Harry  Esmond's  father ;  and  in  this  state  she  had  her  train  car- 
ried by  a  knight's  wife,  a  cup  and  cover  of  assay  to  drink  from,  and 
fringed  cloth. 

He  who  was  of  the  same  age  as  little  Francis,  whom  we  shall 
henceforth  call  Viscount  Castle  wood  here,  vcas  H.R.H.  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  born  in  the  same  year  and  month  with  Frank,  and  just 
proclaimed,  at  Saint  Germains,  King  of  Great  Britain,  France,  and 
Ireland. 


CHAPTER  HI 

I   TA.KE  THE  queen's   PAY  IN   QUIN'S  REGIMENT 

The  fellow  in  the  orange-tawny  livery  with  blue  lace  and  fac- 
ings was  in  waiting  when  Esmond  came  out  of  prison,  and,  taking 
the  young  gentleman's  slender  baggage,  led  the  way  out  of  that 
odious  Newgate,  and  by  Fleet  Conduit,  down  to  the  Thames,  wdiere 
a  pair  of  oars  was  called,  and  they  went  up  the  river  to  Chelsey. 
Esmond  thought  the  sun  had  never  shone  so  bright;  nor  the  air  felt 
so  fresh  and  exhilarating.  Temple  Garden,  as  they  rode  by,  looked 
like  the  garden  of  Eden  to  him,  and  the  aspect  of  the  quays, 
wharves,  and  buildings  by  the  river,  Somerset  House,  and  West- 
minster (where  the  splendid  new  bridge  was  just  beginning),  Lam- 
beth tower  and  palace,  and  that  busy  shining  scene  of  the  Thames 
swarming  with  boats  and  barges,  filled  his  heart  with  pleasure  and 
cheerfulness — as  well  such  a  beautiful  scene  might  to  one  who  had 
been  a  prisoner  so  long,  and  with  so  many  dark  thoughts  deepening 
the  gloom  of  his  captivity.  They  rowed  up  at  length  to  the  pretty 
village  of  Chelsey,  where  the  nobility  have  many  handsome  country 
houses;  and  so  came  to  my  Lady  Viscountess's  house,  a  cheerful 
new  house  in  the  row  facing  the  river,  with  a  handsome  garden 
behind  it,  and  a  pleasant  look-out  both  towards  Surrey  and  Ken- 
sington, where  stands  the  noble  ancient  palace  of  the  Lord  Warwick, 
Harry's  reconciled  adversary. 

Here  in  her  Ladyship's  saloon,  the  j'oungman  saw  again  some  of 
those  pictures  which  had  been  at  Castlewood,  and  which  she  had 
removed  thence  on  the  death  of  her  lord,  Harry's  father.  Specially, 
and  in  the  place  of  honour,  was  Sir  Peter  Lely's  picture  of  the 
Honourable  Mistress  Isabella  Esmond  as  Diana,  in  yellow  satin, 
with  a  bow  in  her  hand  and  a  crescent  in  her  forehead;  and  dogs 
frisking  about  her.      'Twas    painted  about  the  time   when   royal 

228 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  239 

Eadymions  were  said  to  find  favour  with  this  virgin  huntress;  and, 
as  goddesses  have  youth  perpetual,  this  one  believed  to  the  day  of 
her  death  that  she  never  grew  older;  and  always  persisted  in  sup- 
posing the  picture  was  still  like  her. 

After  he  had  been  shown  to  her  room  by  the  groom  of  the 
chamber,  who  filled  many  offices  besides  in  her  Ladyship's  modest 
household,  and  after  a  proper  interval,  his  elderly  goddess  Diana 
vouchsafed  to  appear  to  the  young  man.  A  blackamoor  in  a  Turkish 
habit,  with  red  boots  and  a  silver  collar,  on  which  the  Viscountess's 
arms  were  engraven,  preceded  her  and  bore  her  cushion ;  then  came 
her  gentlewoman;  a  little  pack  of  spaniels  barking  and  frisking 
about  preceded  the  austere  huntress — then,  behold,  the  Viscountess 
herself  "dropping  odours."  Esmond  recollected  from  his  childhood 
that  rich  aroma  of  musk  which  his  mother-in-law  (for  she  may  be 
called  so)  exhaled.  As  the  sky  grows  redder  and  redder  towards 
sunset,  so,  in  the  decline  of  her  years,  the  cheeks  of  my  Lady 
Dowager  blushed  more  deeply.  Her  face  was  illuminated  with 
vermilion,  which  appeared  the  brighter  from  the  white  paint 
employed  to  set  it  off  She  wore  the  ringlets  which  had  been  in 
fashion  in  King  Charles's  time :  vvhereas  the  ladies  of  King  Wil- 
liam's had  head-dresses  like  the  towers  of  Cybele.  Her  eyes  gleamed 
out  from  the  midst  of  this  queer  structure  of  paint,  dyes,  and 
pomatums.  Such  was  my  Lady  Viscountess,  Mr.  Esmond's  father's 
widow. 

He  made  her  such  a  profound  bow  as  her  dignity  and  relation- 
ship merited,  and  advanced  with  the  greatest  gravity,  and  once 
more  kissed  that  hand,  upon  the  trembling  knuckles  of  which  glit- 
tered a  score  of  rings — remembering  old  times  when  that  trembling 
hand  had  made  him  tremble.  "Marchioness,"  says  he,  bowing,  and 
on  one  knee,  "is  it  only  the  hand  I  may  have  the  honour  of  salut- 
ing?" For,  accompanying  that  inward  laughter,  which  the  sight 
of  such  an  astonishing  old  figure  might  well  produce  in  the  young 
man,  there  was  good-will  too,  and  the  kindness  of  consanguinity. 
She  had  been  his  father's  wife,  and  was  his  grandfather's  daughter. 
She  had  suffered  him  in  old  davs,  and  was  kind  to  him  now  after 


230  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

her  fashion.  And  now  that  bar-sinister  was  removed  from 
Esmond's  thought,  and  that  secret  opprobrium  no  longer  cast  upon 
his  mind,  he  was  pleased  to  feel  family  ties  and  own  them — perhaps 
secretly  vain  of  the  sacrifice  he  had  made,  and  to  think  that  he, 
Esmond,  was  really  the  chief  of  his  house,  and  only  prevented  by 
his  own  magnanimity  from  advancing  his  claim 

At  least,  ever  since  he  had  learned  that  secret  from  his  poor 
patron  on  his  dying  bed,  actually  as  he  was  standing  beside  it,  he 
had  felt  an  independency  which  he  had  never  known  before,  and 
which  since  did  not  desert  him.  So  he  called  his  old  aunt  Marchion- 
ess, but  with  an  air  as  if  he  was  the  Marquis  of  Esmond  who  so 
addressed  her. 

Did  she  read  in  the  young  gentleman's  eyes,  which  had  now  no 
fear  of  hers  or  their  superannuated  authority,  that  he  knew  or  sus- 
pected the  truth  about  his  birth?  She  gave  a  start  of  surprise  at 
his  altered  manner :  indeed,  it  was  quite  a  different  bearing  to  that 
of  the  Cambridge  student  who  had  paid  her  a  visit  two  years  since, 
and  whom  she  had  dismissed  with  five  pieces  sent  by  the  groom  of 
the  chamber.  She  eyed  him,  then  trembled  a  little  more  than  was 
her  wont,  perhaps,  and  said,  "Welcome,  cousin,"  in  a  frightened 
voice. 

His  resolution,  as  has  been  said  before,  had  been  quite  different, 
namely,  so  to  bear  himself  through  life  as  if  the  secret  of  his  birth 
was  not  known  to  him ;  but  he  suddenly  and  rightly  determined  on 
a  different  course.  He  asked  that  her  Ladyship's  attendants  should 
]^e  dismissed,  and  when  they  were  private:  "Welcome,  nephew,  at 
least,  madam,  it  should  be,"  he  said.  "A  great  wrong  has  been 
done  to  me  and  to  you,  and  to  my  poor  mothir  who  is  no 
more." 

"I  declare  before  Heaven  that  I  was  guiltless  of  it,"  she  cried 
out,   giving  up  her  cause  at  once.     "It  was  your  wicked  father 

who " 

"Who  brought  this  dishonour  on  our  family,"  says  Mr.  Esmond, 
"I  know  it  full  well.  I  want  to  disturb  no  one.  Those  who  are  in 
present  possession  have  been  my  dearest  benefactors,  and  are  quite 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  231 

innocent  of  intentional  wrong  to  me.  The  late  lord,  my  dear 
patron,  knew  not  the  truth  until  a  few  months  before  his  death, 
when  Father  Holt  brought  the  news  to  him." 

"The  wretch!  he  had  it  in  confession!  he  had  it  in  confession!" 
cried  out  the  Dowager  Lady. 

"Not  so.  He  learned  it  elsewhere  as  well  as  in  confession,"  Mr. 
Esmond  answered.  "My  father,  when  wounded  at  the  Boyne,  told 
the  truth  to  a  French  priest,  vvho  was  in  hiding  after  the  battle,  as 
well  as  to  the  priest  there,  at  whose  house  he  died.  This  gentleman 
did  not  think  fit  to  divulge  the  story  till  he  met  with  Mr.  Holt  at 
Saint  Omer's.  And  the  latter  kept  it  back  for  his  own  purpose, 
and  until  he  had  learned  whether  my  mother  was  alive  or  no. 
She  is  dead  years  since,  my  poor  patron  told  me  with  his  dying 
breath,  and  I  doubt  him  not.  I  do  not  know  even  whether  I  oould 
prove  a  marriage.  I  would  not  if  I  could.  I  do  not  care  to  bring 
shame  on  our  name,  or  grief  upon  those  whom  I  love,  however 
hardly  they  may  use  me.  My  father's  son,  madam,  won't  aggra- 
vate the  wrong  vAy  father  did  you.  Continue  to  be  his  widow,  and 
give  me  your  kindness.  'Tis  all  I  ask  from  you ;  and  I  shall  never 
speak  of  this  matter  again." 

"Mais  vous  etes  un  noble  jeune  liomme!"  breaks  out  my  Lady, 
speaking,  as  usual  with  her  when  she  was  agitated,  in  the  French 
language. 

"Noblesse  oblige,"  sa^^s  Mr.  Esmond,  making  her  a  low  bow. 

'There  are  those  alive  to  whom,  in  return  for  their  love  to  me,  I 

often  fondly  said  I  would  give  my  life  away.     Shall  I  be  their 

enemy  now,  and  quarrel  about  a  title?     What  matters  who  has  ifi 

'Tis  with  the  family  still." 

"What  can  there  be  in  that  little  prude  of  a  woman  that  makes 
men  so  raffoler  about  her?"  cries  out  my  Lady  Dowager.  "She  was 
here  for  a  month  petitioning  the  King.  She  is  pretty,  and  well 
conserved ;  but  she  has  not  the  bel  air.  In  his  late  Majesty's  Court 
all  the  men  pretended  to  admire  her,  and  she  was  no  better  than  a 
little  wax  doll.  She  is  better  now,  and  looks  the  sister  of  het 
daugliter;    br.t  what  mean  you  all  by  bepraising  her?    Mr.  Steele^ 


233  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

who  was  in  waiting  on  Prince  George,  seeing  her  with  her  two 
children  going  to  Kensington,  writ  a  poem  about  her,  and  says  he 
shall  wear  her  colours,  and  dress  in  black  for  the  future.  Mr. 
Congreve  says  he  will  write  a  'Mourning  Widow,'  that  shall  be 
better  than  his  'Mourning  Bride.'  Though  their  husbands  quar- 
r,elled  and  fought  when  that  wretch  Churchill  deserted  the  Kiug 
(for  which  he  deserved  to  be  hung).  Lady  Marlborough  has  again  gone 
wild  about  the  little  widow;  insulted  me  in  my  own  drawing-room, 
^y  saying  that  'twas  not  the  old  widow,  but  the  young  Viscountess, 
she  had  come  to  see.  Little  Castle  wood  and  little  Lord  Churchill 
are  to  be  sworn  friends,  and  have  boxed  each  other  twice  or  thrice 
like  brothers  already.  'Twas  that  wicked  young  Mohun  who,  com- 
ing back  from  the  provinces  last  year,  where  he  had  disinterred 
her,  raved  about  her  all  the  winter ;  said  she  was  a  pearl  set  before 
swine ;  and  killed  poor  stupid  Frank.  The  quarrel  was  all  about 
his  wife.  I  know  'twas  all  about  her.  Was  there  anything  betw^een 
her  and  Mohun,  nephew?  Tell  me  now — was  there  anything? 
About  yourself  I  do  not  ask  you  to  answer  questions." 

Mr.  Esmond  blushed  up.  "My  Lady's  virtue  is  like  that  of  a 
saint  in  heaven,"  he  cried  out. 

"Eh!  mon  neveu.  Manj^  saints  get  to  heaven  after  having  a  deal 
to  repent  of.  I  believe  you  are  like  all  the  rest  of  the  fools,  and 
madly  in  love  with  her." 

"Indeed,  I  loved  and  honoured  her  before  all  the  world," 
Esmond  answered.     "I  take  no  shame  in  that." 

"And  she  has  shut  her  door  on  you— given  the  living  to  that 
horrid  young  cub,  son  of  that  horrid  old  bear,  Tusher,  and  says  she 
will  never  see  you  more.  Monsieur  mon  neveu — we  are  all  like  that. 
When  I  was  a  young  woman,  I'm  positive  that  a  thousand  duels 
were  fought  about  me.  And  when  poor  Monsieur  de  Soucliy 
drowned  himself  in  the  canal  at  Bruges  because  I  danced  with 
Count  Springbock,  I  couldn't  squeeze  out  a  single  tear,  but  danced 
till  five  o'clock  the  next  morning.  "Twas  the  Count — no,  'twas  my 
Lord  Ormond  that  played  the  fiddles,  and  his  Majesty  did  me  the 
honour  of  dancing  all  niarht  witli  me.     How  you  are  grown!    You 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  233 

have  got  the  bel  air.  You  are  a  black  man.  Our  Esmonds  are  all 
black.  The  little  prude's  son  is  fair;  so  was  his  father — fair  and 
stupid.  You  were  an  ugly  little  wretch  when  you  came  to  Castle- 
wood — you  were  all  eyes,  like  a  young  crow.  We  intended  you 
should  be  a  priest.  That  awful  Father  Holt — how  he  used  to 
frighten  me  when  I  was  ill!  I  have  a  comfortable  director  now — 
tlie  Abbe  Douillette — a  dear  man.  We  make  meagre  on  Fridays 
always.  My  cook  is  a  devout  piovis  man.  You,  of  course,  are  of 
the  right  way  of  thinking.  They  say  the  Prince  of  Orange  is  very 
ill  indeed." 

In  this  way  the  old  Dowager  rattled  on  remorselessly  to  Mr. 
Esmond,  who  was  quite  astounded  with  her  present  volubility,  con- 
trasting it  with  her  former  haughty  behaviour  to  him.  But  she 
had  taken  him  into  favour  for  the  moment,  and  chose  not  only  to- 
like  him,  as  far  as  her  nature  permitted,  but  to  be  afraid  of  him ; 
and  he  found  himself  to  be  as  familiar  with  her  now  as  a  young 
man,  as,  when  a  boy,  he  had  been  timorous  and  silent.  She  was  as- 
good  as  her  word  respecting  him.  She  introduced  him  to  her  com- 
panj^  of  which  she  entertained  a  good  deal — of  the  adherents  of 
King  James  of  course — and  a  great  deal  of  loud  intriguing  took 
place  over  her  card-tables.  She  presented  Mr.  Esmond  as  her  kins- 
man to  many  persons  of  honour ;  she  supplied  him  not  illiberally 
with  money,  which  he  had  no  scruple  in  accepting  from  her,  con- 
sidering the  relationship  wiiich  he  bore  to  her,  and  the  sacrifices 
which  he  himself  was  making  in  behalf  of  the  l^amily.  But  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  continue  at  no  woman's  apron-strings  longer ;, 
and  perhaps  had  cast  about  how  he  should  distinguish  himself,  and 
make  himself  a  name,  which  his  singular  fortune  had  denied  him. 
A  discontent  with  his  former  bookish  life  and  quietude, — a  bitter 
feeling  of  revolt  at  that  slavery  in  which  he  had  chosen  to  confine 
himself  for  the  sake  of  those  whose  hardness  towards  him  made  his 
heart  bleed, — a  restless  wish  to  see  men  and  the  world, — led  him  to 
think  of  the  military  profession :  at  any  rate,  to  desire  to  see  a  few 
campaigns,  and  accordingly  he  pressed  his  new  patroness  to  get 
him  a  pair  of  colours;   and  one  day  had  the  honour  of  finding  him- 


234  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

self  appointed  an  ensign  in  Colonel  Quiu's  regiment  of  Fusileers  on 
the  Irish  establishment. 

Mr.  Esmond's  commission  was  scarce  three  weeks  old  when  that 
accident  befell  King  William  which  ended  the  life  of  the  greatest, 
tlie  wisest,  the  bravest,  and  most  clement  sovereign  whom  England 
ever  knew.  'Twas  the  fashion  of  the  hostile  party  to  assail  this 
great  Prince's  reputation  during  his  life ;  but  the  joy  which  they 
and  all  his  enemies  in  Europe  showed  at  his  death,  is  a  proof  of  the 
terror  in  which  they  held  him.  Young  as  Esmond  was,  he  was 
wise  enough  (and  generous  enough  too,  let  it  be  said)  to  scorn  that 
indecency  of  gratulation  which  broke  out  amongst  the  followers  of 
King  James  in  London,  upon  the  death  of  this  illustrious  prince, 
this  invincible  warrior,  this  wise  and  moderate  statesman.  Loj^alty 
to  the  exiled  king's  family  was  traditional,  as  has  been  said,  in 
that  house  to  which  Mr.  Esmond  belonged.  His  father's  widow 
had  all  her  hopes,  her  sympathies,  recollections,  prejudices,  engaged 
on  King  James's  side ;  and  was  certainly  as  noisy  a  conspirator  as 
ever  asserted  the  King's  rights,  or  abused  his  opponent's,  over  a 
quadrille  table  or  a  dish  of  bohea.  Her  Ladyship's  house  swarmed 
with  ecclesiastics,  in  disguise  and  out ;  whilst  tale-bearers  from  St. 
Germains;  and  quidnuncs  that  knew  the  last  news  from  Versailles: 
nay,  the  exact  force  and  number  of  the  next  expedition  which  the 
French  King  was  to  send  from  Dunkirk,  and  which  was  to  swallow 
up  the  Prince  of  Orange,  his  army,  and  his  court.  She  had  received 
the  Duke  of  Berwick  when  he  landed  here  in  '96.  She  kept  the 
glass  he  drank  from,  vowing  she  never  would  use  it  till  she  drank 
King  James  the  Third's  health  in  it  on  his  Majesty's  return ;  she 
had  tokens  from  the  Queen,  and  relics  of  the  saint  who,  if  the  story 
was  true,  had  not  always  been  a  saint  as  far  as  she  and  maiay  others 
were  concerned.  She  believed  in  the  miracles  wrought  at  his  tomb, 
and  had  a  hundred  authentic  stories  of  wondrous  cures  effected  by 
the  blessed  King's  rosaries,  the  medals  which  he  wore,  the  locks  of 
liis  hair,  or  what  not.  Esmond  remembered  a  score  of  marvellous 
i  .lies  wliich  the  credulous  old  woman  told  him.  There  was  the  Bishop 
of  Autun,  that  was  healed  of  a  malady  he  had  for  forty  years,  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  235 

which  left  him  after  he  said  mass  for  the  repose  of  the  King's  soal. 
There  was  Monsieur  Marais,  a  surgeon  in  Auvergne,  who  had  a 
palsy  in  both  his  legs,  which  was  cured  through  the  King's  inter- 
cession. There  was  Philip  Pitet,  of  the  Benedictines,  who  had  a 
suffocating  cough,  which  well-nigh  killed  him,  but  he  besouglit 
relief  of  Heaven  through  the  merits  and  intercession  of  the  blessed 
King,  and  he  straightway  felt  a  profuse  sweat  breaking  out  all 
over  him,  and  was  recovered  perfectly.  And  there  was  the  wife  of 
Monsieur  Lepervier,  dancing-master  to  the  Duke  of  Saxe  Gotha, 
who  was  entirely  eased  of  a  rheumatism  by  the  King's  intercession, 
of  which  miracle  there  could  be  no  doubt,  for  her  surgeon  and  his 
apprentice  had  given  their  testimony,  under  oath,  that  they  did  not 
in  any  way  contribute  to  the  cure.  Of  these  tales,  and  a  thousand 
like  them,  Mr.  Esmond  believed  as  much  as  he  chose.  His  kins- 
woman's greater  faith  had  swallow  for  them  ail. 

The  English  High  Church  party  did  not  adopt  these  legends. 
But  truth  and  honour,  as  they  thought,  bound  them  to  the  exiled 
King's  side ;  nor  had  the  banished  family  any  warmer  supporter 
than  that  kind  lady  of  Castlewood,  in  ^vhose  house  Esmond  was 
brought  up.  She  influenced  her  husband,  very  much  more  perhaps 
than  my  Lord  knew,  who  admired  his  wife  prodigiously  though  he 
might  be  inconstant  to  her,  and  who,  adverse  to  the  trouble  of 
thinking  himself,  gladly  enough  adopted  the  opinions  which  she 
chose  for  him.  To  one  of  her  simple  and  faithful  heart,  allegiance 
to  any  sovereign  but  the  one  was  impossible.  To  serve  King  Wil- 
liam for  interest's  sake  would  have  been  a  monstrous  hypocrisy  and 
treason.  Her  pure  conscience  could  no  more  have  consented  to  it 
than  to  a  theft,  a  forgery,  or  any  other  base  action.  Lord  Castle- 
wood might  have  been  won  over,  no  doubt,  but  his  wife  never 
could:  and  he  submitted  his  conscience  to  hers  in  this  case  as  he  did 
in  most  others,  when  he  was  not  tempted  too  sorely.  And  it  was 
from  his  affection  and  gratitude  most  likely,  and  from  that  eager 
devotion  for  his  mistress  which  characterised  all  Esmond's  youth, 
that  the  young  man  subscribed  to  this,  and  other  articles  of  faith, 
which  his  fond  benefactress  sent  him.     Had  she  been  a  Wiiig,  he 


236  THE  HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND 

had  been  one ;  had  she  followed  Mr.  Fox,  and  turned  Quaker,  no 
doubt  he  would  have  abjured  ruffles  and  a  periwig,  and  have  for- 
sworn swords,  lace-coats,  and  clocked  stockings.  In  the  scholar's 
boyish  disputes  at  the  University,  where  parties  ran  very  high, 
Esmond  was  noted  as  a  Jacobite,  and  very  likely  from  vanity  as 
much  as  affection  took  the  side  of  his  family. 

Almost  the  whole  of  the  clergy  of  the  country  and  more  than  a 
half  of  the  "nation  were  on  this  side.  Ours  is  the  most  loyal  people 
in  the  world  surely ;  we  admire  our  kings,  and  are  faithful  to  them 
long  after  they  have  ceased  to  be  true  to  us.  'Tis  a  wonder  to  any 
one  who  looks  back  at  the  history  of  the  Stuart  family  to  think 
how  they  kicked  their  crowns  away  from  them ;  how  they  flung 
away  chances  after  chances;  what  treasures  of  loyalty  they  dissi- 
pated, and  how  fatally  they  were  bent  on  consummating  their  own 
ruin.  If  ever  men  had  fidelity,  'twas  they;  if  ever  men  squandered 
opportunity,  'twas  they;  and,  of  all  the  enemies  they  had,  they 
themselves  were  the  most  fatal.  ^ 

When  the  Princess  Anne  succeeded,  the  wearied  nation  was  glad 
enough  to  cry  a  truce  from  all  these  wars,  controversies,  and  con- 
spiracies, and  to  accept  in  the  person  of  a  Princess  of  the  blood  royal 
a  compromise  between  the  parties  into  which  the  country  was 
divided.  The  Tories  could  serve  under  her  with  easy  consciences ; 
though  a  Tory  herself,  she  represented  the  triumph  of  the  Whig 
opinion.  The  people  of  England,  always  liking  that  their  Princes 
should  be  attached  to  their  own  families,  were  pleased  to  think  the 
Princess  was  faithful  to  hers;  and  up  to  the  very  last  day  and  hour 
of  her  reign,  and  but  for  that  fatality  which  he  inherited  from  his 
fathers  along  wdth  their  claims  to  the  English  crown.  King  James 
the  Third  might  have  worn  it.  But  he  neither  knew  how  to  wait 
an  oppoj-tunity,  nor  to  use  it  when  he  had  it ;  he  was  venturesome 
when  he  ought  to  have  been  cautious,  and  cautious  when  he  ought 

^  'fi  7r67rot,  ohv  5^  vv  deois  ^poTol  alTiouPTai' 
i^  rj/neup  yap  (f)a(Ti  kolk    '^jxjxevai,  oi  8e  Kal  aurol 
<r<prjcrLV  dTacrdaXirjcnu  virkp  fxbpov  dXye   exovciv. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  237 

to  have  dared  everything.  'Tis  with  a  sort  of  rage  at  his  inaptitude 
that  one  thinks  of  his  melancholy  story.  Do  the  Fates  deal  more 
specially  with  kings  than  with  common  men?  One  is  apt  to  imag- 
ine so,  in  considering  the  history  of  that  royal  race,  in  whose  behalf 
so  much  fidelity,  so  much  valour,  so  much  blood  were  desperately 
and  bootlessly  expended. 

The  King  dead  then,  the  Princess  Anne  (ugly  Anne  Hyde's 
daughter,  our  Dowager  at  Chelsey  called  her)  was  proclaimed  by 
trumpeting  heralds  all  over  the  town  from  Westminster  to  Ludgate 
Hill,  amidst  immense  jubilations  of  the  people. 

Next  week  my  Lord  Marlborough  was  promoted  to  the  Garter, 
and  to  be  Captain-General  of  her  Majesty's  forces  at  home  and 
abroad.  This  appointment  only  inflamed  the  Dowager's  rage,  or, 
as  she  thought  it,  her  fidelity  to  her  rightful  sovereign.  "The  Prin- 
cess is  but  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  that  fury  of  a  woman,  who 
comes  into  my  drawing-room  and  insults  me  to  my  face.  What 
can  come  to  a  country  that  is  given  over  to  such  a  woman?"  says 
the  Dowager.  "As  for  that  double-faced  traitor,  my  Lord  Marl- 
boroughj  he  has  betrayed  every  man  and  every  woman  with  whom 
he  has  had  to  deal,  except  his  horrid  wife,  who  makes  him  tremble. 
'Tis  all  over  with  the  country  when  it  has  got  into  the  clutches  of 
such  wretches  as  these.  ' 

Esmond's  old  kinswoman  saluted  the  new  powers  in  this  way; 
but  some  good  fortune  at  la^t  occurred  to  a  family  which  stood  in 
great  need  of  it,  by  the  advancement  of  these  famous  personages, 
who  benefited  humbler  people  that  had  the  luck  of  being  in  their 
favour.  Before  Mr.  Esmond  left  England  in  the  month  of  August, 
and  being  then  at  Portsmouth,  where  he  had  joined  his  regiment, 
and  was  busy  at  drill,  learning  the  practice  and  mysteries  of 
the  musket  and  pike,  he  heard  that  a  pension  on  the  Stamp  Office 
had  been  got  for  his  late  beloved  mistress,  and  that  the  young 
Mistress  Beatrix  was  also  to  be  taken  into  Court.  So  much  good,  at 
least,  had  come  of  the  poor  widow's  visit  to  London,  not  revenge  upou 
herhusband's  enemies,  but  reconcilement  to  old  friends,  who  pitied, 
and  seemed  inclined  to  serve  her.     As  for  the  comrades  in  prison 


238  THE   HISTORY   OF   HEXRY   ESMOND 

and  the  late  misfortune,  Colonel  Westbury  was  with  the  Captain- 
General  gone  to  Holland;  Caj)tain  Macartney  was  now  at  Ports- 
mouth, with  his  regiment  of  Fusileers  and  the  force  under  command 
of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  bound  for  Spain  it  was  said;  my 
Lord  Warwick  was  returned  home;  and  Lord  Mohun,  so  far  from 
being  punished  for  the  homicide  which  had  brought  so  much  grief 
and  change  into  the  Esmond  family,  was  gone  in  company  of  my 
Lord  Macclesfield's  splendid  embassy  to  the  Elector  of  Hanover, 
carrying  the  Garter  to  his  Highness,  and  a  complimentary  letter 
from  the  Queen. 


I 


CHAPTER  IV 


RECAPITULATIONS 


From  such  fitful  lights  as  could  be  cast  upon  his  dark  history  by 
the  broken  narrative  of  his  poor  patron,  torn  b}^  remorse  and  strug- 
gling in  the  last  pangs  of  dissolution,  Mr.  Esmond  had  been  made 
to  understand  so  far,  that  his  mother  was  long  since  dead ;  and  so 
there  could  be  no  question  as  regarded  her  or  her  honour,  tarnished 
by  her  husband's  desertion  and  injury,  to  influence  her  son  in  any 
steps  which  he  might  take  either  for  prosecuting  or  relinquishing 
his  own  just  claims.  It  appeared  from  my  poor  Lord's  hurried 
confession,  that  he  had  been  made  acquainted  with  the  real  facts  of 
the  case  only  two  years  since,  when  Mr.  Holt  visited  him,  and 
would  have  implicated  him  in  one  of  those  many  conspiracies  by 
which  the  secret  leaders  of  King  James's  party  in  tliis  country  were 
ever  endeavouring  to  destroy  the  Prince  of  Orange's  life  or  power: 
conspiracies  so  like  murder,  so  cowardh'  in  the  means  used,  so 
wicked  in  the  end,  that  our  nation  has  sure  done  well  in  throwing 
off  all  allegiance  and  fidelity  to  the  unhappy  family  that  could  not 
vindicate  its  right  except  by  such  treachery — by  such  dark  intrigue 
and  base  agents.  There  were  designs  against  King  William  that 
were  no  more  honourable  than  the  ambushes  of  cutthroats  and 
footpads.  'Tis  humiliating  to  think  that  a  great  Prince,  possessed 
of  a  great  and  sacred  right,  and  upholder  of  a  great  cause,  should 
have  stooped  to  such  baseness  of  assassination  and  treasons  as  aro 
proved  by  the  unfortunate  King  James's  own  warrant  and  sigii- 
manual  given  to  his  supporters  in  this  country.  What  he  and  they 
called  levying  war  was,  in  truth,  no  better  than  instigating  mur- 
der. The  noble  Prince  of  Orange  burst  magnanimously  through 
those  feeble  meshes  of  conspiracy  in  which  his  enemies  tried  to 
envelop  him:  it  seemed  as  if  their  cowardly  daggers  broke  upon  the 

239 


2A0  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

breast  of  his  undaunted  resolution.  After  King  James's  death,  the 
Queen  and  her  people  at  St.  Germains — priests  and  women  for  the 
most  part — continued  their  intrigues  in  behalf  of  the  young  Prince, 
James  the  Third,  as  he  was  called  in  France  and  by  his  party  here 
(this  Prince,  or  Chevalier  de  St.  George,  was  born  in  the  same  year 
with  Esmond's  young  pupil  Frank,  my  Lord  Viscount's  son) ;  and 
the  Prince's  affairs,  being  in  the  hands  of  priests  and  women,  were 
conducted  as  priests  and  women  will  conduct  them, — artfully, 
cruelly,  feebly,  and  to  a  certain  bad  issue.  The  moral  of  the 
Jesuit's  story  I  think  as  wholesome  a  one  as  ever  was  writ:  the 
artfullest,  the  wisest,  the  most  toilsome  and  dexterous  plot-builders 
in  the  world — there  always  comes  a  day  when  the  roused  public 
indignation  kicks  their  flimsy  edifice  down,  and  sends  its  cowardly 
•enemies  a-flying.  Mr.  Swift  hath  finely  described  that  passion  for 
intrigue,  that  love  of  secrecy,  slander,  and  lying,  which  belongs  to 
weak  people,  hangers-on  of  weak  courts.  'Tis  the  nature  of  such  to 
hate  and  envy  the  strong,  and  conspire  their  rain;  and  the  con- 
spiracy succeeds  very  well,  and  everything  presages  the  satisfactory 
overthrow  of  the  great  victim;  until  one  day  Gulliver  rouses  him- 
self, shakes  off  the  little  vermin  of  an  enemy,  and  walks  away 
immolested.  Ah!  the  Irish  soldiers  might  well  say  after  the 
Boyne,  "Change  kings  with  us,  and  we  will  fight  it  over  again." 
Indeed,  the  fight  was  not  fair  between  the  two.  'Twas  a  weak, 
priest-ridden,  woman-ridden  man,  with  such  puny  allies  and  weap- 
ons as  his  own  poor  nature  led  him  to  choose,  contending  against 
the  schemes,  the  generalship,  the  wisdom,  and  the  heart  of  a 
hero. 

On  one  of  these  many  coward's  errands  then  (for,  as  I  view  them 
now  I  can  call  them  no  less),  Mr.  Holt  had  come  to  my  Lord  at 
Castlewood,  proposing  some  infallible  plan  for  the  Prii<ce  of 
Orange's  destruction,  in  which  my  Lord  Viscount,  loyalist  as  he 
was,  had  indignantly  refused  to  join.  As  far  as  Mr.  Esmond  cculd 
gather  from  his  dying  words.  Holt  came  to  my  Lord  with  a  plan  of 
insurrection,  and  offer  of  the  renewal,  in  his  person,  of  that  mar- 
quis's title  which  King  James  had  conferred  on  the  preceding  vis- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  241 

counC ;  and  on  refusal  of  this  bribe,  a  threat  was  made,  on  Holt's 
part,  to  upset  my  Lord  Viscount's  claim  to  his  estate  and  title  of 
Castlevvood  altogether.  To  back  this  astounding  piece  of  intelli- 
gence, of  which  Henry  Esmond's  patron  now  had  the  first  light,  Holt 
«ame  armed  with  the  late  lord's  dying  declaration,  after  the  affair 
of  t]ie  Boyne,  at  Trim,  in  Ireland,  made  both  to  the  Irish  priest  and 
a  French  ecclesiastic  of  Holt's  order,  that  was  with  King  James's 
army.  Holt  showed,  or  pretended  to  show,  the  marriage  certificate 
of  the  late  Viscount  Esmond  with  my  mother,  in  the  city  of  Brus- 
sels, in  the  year  1679,  when  the  Viscount,  then  Thomas  Esmond, 
was  serving  with  the  English  army  in  Flanders ;  he  could  show,  he 
said,  that  this  Gertrude,  deserted  by  her  husband  long  since,  was 
alive,  and  a  professed  nun  in  the  year  1685,  at  Brussels,  in  which 
year  Thomas  Esmond  married  his  uncle's  daughter  Isabella,  now 
called  Viscountess  Dowager  of  Castlewood ;  and  leaving  him,  for 
twelve  hours,  to  consider  this  astounding  news  (so  the  poor  dying 
lord  said),  disappeared  with  his  papers  in  the  mysterious  way  in 
which  he  came.  Esmond  knew  how,  well  enough:  by  that  window 
from  which  he  had  seen  the  Father  issue : — but  there  was  no  need 
to  explain  to  my  poor  Lord,  only  to  gather  from  his  parting  lips  the 
words  which  he  would  soon  be  able  to  utter  no  more. 

Ere  the  twelve  hours  were  over.  Holt  himself  was  a  prisoner, 
implicated  in  Sir  John  Fenwick's  conspiracy,  and  locked  up  at 
Hexton  first,  whence  he  was  transferred  to  the  Tower;  leaving  the 
poor  Lord  Viscount,  who  was  not  aware  of  the  other's  being  taken, 
in  daily  apprehension  of  his  return,  when  (as  my  Lord  Castlewood 
declared,  calling  God  to  witness,  and  with  tears  in  his  dying  eyes) 
it  had  been  his  intention  at  once  to  give  up  his  estate  and  his  title 
to  their  proper  owner,  and  to  retire  to  his  own  house  at  Walcote 
■with  his  family.  "And  would  to  God  I  had  done  it,"  the  poor  lord 
said.  "I  would  not  be  here  now,  wounded  to  death,  a  miserable, 
stricken  man!" 

My  Lord  waited  day  after  da}-,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  no 
messenger  came;  but  at  a  month's  end  Holt  got  means  to  convey  to 
him  a  message  out  of  the  Tower,  which  was  to  this  effect :  that  he 


243  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

should  consider  all  unsaid  that  had  been  said,  and  that  things  were 
as  they  were. 

"I  had  a  sore  temptation,"  said  my  poor  Lord.  "Since  I  had 
come  into  this  cursed  title  of  Castle  wood,  which  hath  never  pros- 
pered with  me,  I  have  spent  far  more  than  the  income  of  that 
estate,  and  my  paternal  one  too.  I  calculated  all  my  means  down 
to  the  last  shilling,  and  found  I  never  could  pay  you  back,  my  poor 
Harry,  whose  fortune  I  had  had  for  ten  years.  My  wife  and  chil- 
dren must  have  gone  out  of  the  house  dishonoured,  and  beggars. 
God  knows,  it  hath  been  a  miserable  one  for  me  and  mine.  Like  a 
coward,  I  clung  to  that  respite  which  Holt  gave  me.  I  kept  the 
truth  from  Rachel  and  you.  I  tried  to  win  money  of  Mohun,  and 
only  plunged  deeper  into  debt ;  I  scarce  dared  look  thee  in  the  face 
when  I  saw  thee.  This  sword  hath  been  hanging  over  my  head 
these  two  years.  I  swear  I  felt  happy  when  Mohun's  blade  entered 
my  side." 

After  lying  ten  months  in  the  Tower,  Holt,  against  whom  nothing 
could  be  found  except  that  he  was  a  Jesuit  priest,  known  to  be  in 
King  James's  interest,  was  put  on  shipboard  by  the  incorrigible 
forgiveness  of  King  William,  who  promised  him,  however,  a  hang- 
ing if  ever  lie  should  again  set  foot  on  English  shore.  More  than 
once,  whilst  he  was  in  prison  himself,  Esmond  had  thought  where 
those  papers  could  be  which  the  Jesuit  had  shown  to  his  patron , 
and  which  had  such  an  interest  for  himself.  They  were  not  found 
on  Mr.  Holfs  person  when  that  Father  was  apprehended,  for  had 
such  been  the  case  my  Lords  of  the  Council  had  seen  them,  and 
this  family  history  had  long  since  been  made  public.  However, 
Esmond  cared  not  to  seek  the  papers.  His  resolution  being  taken ; 
his  poor  mother  dead;  what  matter  to  him  that  documents  existed 
proving  his  right  to  a  title  which  he  was  determined  not  to  claim, 
and  of  which  he  vowed  never  to  deprive  that  family  which  he 
loved  best  in  the  world?  Perhaps  he  took  a  greater  pride  out  of  his 
sacrifice  than  he  would  have  had  in  tliose  honours  which  he  was 
resolved  to  forego.  Again,  as  long  as  these  titles  were  not  forth- 
coming, Esmond's  kinsman,  dear  young  Francis,  was  the  honour- 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  243 

able  and  undisputed  owner  of  the  Castlewood  estate  and  title.  The 
mere  word  of  a  Jesuit  could  not  overset  Frank's  right  of  occupancy, 
and  so  Esmond's  mind  felt  actually  at  ease  to  think  the  papers  were 
missing,  and  in  their  absence  his  dear  mistress  and  her  son  the 
lawful  Ladj'  and  Lord  of  Castlewood, 

Very  soon  after  his  liberation,  Mr.  Esmond  made  it  his  business 
to  ride  to  that  village  of  Ealing  where  he  had  passed  Jiis  earliest 
years  in  this  country,  and  to  see  if  his  old  guardians  were  still  alive 
and  inhabitants  of  that  place.  But  the  only  relique  which  he  found 
of  old  M.  Pastoureau  was  a  stone  in  the  churchyard,  which  told  that 
Athanasius  Pastoureau,  a  native  of  Flanders,  lay  there  buried,  aged 
87  years.  The  old  man's  cottage,  which  Esmond  perfectly  recol- 
lected, and  the  garden  (where  in  his  childhood  he  had  passed  many 
hours  of  play  and  reverie,  and  had  many  a  beating  from  his  ter- 
magant of  a  foster-mother)  were  now  in  the  occupation  of  quite  a 
different  family ;  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  could  learn  in 
the  village  what  had  come  of  Pastoureau's  widow  and  children. 
The  clerk  of  the  parish  recollected  her — the  old  man  was  scarce 
altered  in  the  fourteen  years  that  had  passed  since  last  Esmond  set 
eyes  on  him.  It  appeared  she  had  pretty  soon  consoled  herself 
after  the  death  of  her  old  husband,  whom  she  ruled  over,  by  taking 
a  new  one  younger  than  herself,  who  spent  her  money  and  ill- 
treated  her  and  her  children.  The  girl  died ;  one  of  the  boys  'listed ; 
the  other  had  gone  apprentice.  Old  Mr.  Rogers,  the  clerk,  said  he 
had  heard  that  Mrs.  Pastoureau  was  dead  too.  She  and  her  hus- 
band had  left  Ealing  this  seven  year;  and  so  Mr.  Esmond's  hopes  of 
gaining  any  information  regarding  his  parentage  from  this  family 
were  brought  to  an  end.  He  gave  the  old  clerk  a  crown-piece  for 
his  news,  smiling  to  think  of  the  time  when  he  and  his  little  play- 
fellows had  slunk  out  of  the  churchyard  or  hidden  behind  the  grave- 
stones at  the  approach  of  this  awful  authority. 

Who  was  his  mother?  What  had  her  name  been?  When  did 
she  die?  Esmond  longed  to  find  some  one  who  could  answer  these 
questions  to  him,  and  thought  even  of  putting  them  to  his  aunt  the 
Viscountess,  who  had  innocently  taken  the  name  which  belonged 


244  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

of  right  to  Henry's  mother.  But  she  knew  nothing,  or  chose  to 
know  nothing,  on  this  subject,  nor,  indeed,  could  Mr,  Esmond 
press  her  much  to  speak  on  it.  Father  Holt  was  the  only  man  who 
could  enlighten  him,  and  Esmond  felt  he  must  wait  until  some 
fresh  chance  or  new  intrigue  might  put  him  face  to  face  with  his 
old  friend,  or  bring  that  restless  indefatigable  spirit  back  to  Eng- 
land again. 

The  appointment  to  his  ensigncy,  and  the  preparations  necessary 
for  the  campaign,  presently  gave  the  young  gentleman  other  mat- 
ters to  think  of.  His  new  patroness  treated  him  very  kindly  and 
liberally ;  she  promised  to  make  interest  and  pay  money,  too,  to  get 
him  a  companj^  speedily ;  she  bade  him  procure  a  handsome  outfit, 
both  of  clothes  and  of  arms,  and  was  pleased  to  admire  him  when 
he  made  his  first  appearance  in  his  laced  scarlet  coat,  and  to  permit 
him  to  salute  her  on  the  occasion  of  this  interesting  investiture. 
"Red,"  says  she,  tossing  up  her  old  head,  "hath  always  been  the 
colour  worn  by  the  Esmonds."  And  sober  Ladyship  wore  it  on 
her  own  cheeks  very  faithfully  to  the  last.  She  would  have  him  be 
dressed,  she  said,  as  became  his  father's  son,  and  paid  cheerfully  for 
his  five-pound  beaver,  his  black  buckled  periwig,  and  his  fine  hol- 
land  shirts,  and  his  swords,  and  his  pistols  mounted  with  silver. 
Since  the  day  he  was  born,  poor  Harry  had  never  looked  such  a  fine 
gentleman:  his  liberal  stepmother  filled  his  purse  with  guineas  too, 
some  of  which  Captain  Steele  and  a  few  choice  spirits  helped  Harry 
to  spend  in  an  entertainment  which  Dick  ordered  (and,  indeed, 
would  have  paid  for,  but  that  he  had  no  money  when  the  reckoning 
was  called  for ;  nor  would  the  landlord  give  him  any  more  credit) 
at  the  "Garter,"  over  against  the  gate  of  the  Palace,  in  Pall  Mall. 

The  old  Viscountess,  indeed,  if  she  had  done  Esmond  any  wrong 
formerl}',  seemed  inclined  to  repair  it  by  the  present  kindness  of 
her  behaviour:  she  embraced  him  copiously  at  parting,  wept  plenti- 
fully, bade  him  write  by  every  packet,  and  gave  him  an  inestimable 
relic,  which  she  besought  him  to  wear  round  his  neck — a  medal, 
blessed  by  I  know  not  what  pope,  and  worn  by  his  late  sacred 
Majesty  King  James.     So  Esmond  arrived  at  his  regiment  with  a 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  245 

better  equipage  than  most  joung  officers  could  afford.  He  was 
older  than  most  of  his  seniors,  and  had  a  further  advantage  which 
belonged  but  to  very  few  of  the  army  gentlemen  in  his  day — many 
of  whom  could  do  little  more  than  write  their  names — that  he  had 
read  much,  both  at  home  and  at  the  University,  was  master  of  two 
or  three  languages,  and  had  that  further  education  which  neither 
books  nor  years  will  give,  but  which  some  men  get  from  the  silent 
teaching  of  Adversity.  She  is  a  great  schoolmistress,  as  many  a 
poor  fellow  knows,  that  hath  held  his  hand  out  to  her  ferule,  and 
whimpered  over  his  lesson  before  her  awful  chair. 


CHAPTER   V 

i  GO   ON   THE  YIGO   BAY  EXPEDITION,   TASTE   SALT  WATER   AND 
SMELL   POWDER 

The  first  expedition  in  which  Mr.  Esmond  had  the  honour  to  be 
engaged,  rather  resembled  one  of  the  invasions  projected  by  the 
redoubted  Captain  Avory  or  Captain  Kidd,  than  a  war  between 
crowned  heads,  carried  on  by  generals  of  rank  and  honour.  On  the 
first  day  of  July  1702,  a  great  fleet,  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  sail,  set 
sail  from  Spithead,  under  the  command  of  Admiral  Shovell,  having 
on  board  12,000  troops,  with  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Ormond  as  the 
Capt. -General  of  the  expedition.  One  of  these  12,000  heroes  having 
never  been  to  sea  before,  or,  at  least,  only  once  in  his  infancy, 
when  he  made  the  voj'age  to  England  from  that  unknown  country 
where  he  was  born — one  of  those  12,000 — the  junior  ensign  of 
Colonel  Quin's  regiment  of  Fusileers — was  in  a  quite  unheroic  state 
of  corporal  prostration  a  few  hours  after  sailing;  and  an  enemy, 
had  he  boarded  the  ship,  would  have  had  easy  work  of  him.  From 
Portsmouth  we  put  into  Plymouth,  and  took  in  fresh  reinforce- 
ments. We  were  off  Finisterre  on  the  31st  of  July,  so  Esmond's 
table-book  informs  him:  and  on  the  8th  of  August  made  the  rock 
of  Lisbon.  By  this  time  the  Ensign  was  grown  as  bold  as  an 
admiral,  and  a  week  afterwards  had  the  fortune  to  be  under,  fire  for 
the  first  time — and  under  water  too — his  boat  being  swamped  in  the 
surf  in  Toros  Bay,  where  the  troops  landed.  The  ducking  of  his 
new  coat  was  all  the  harm  the  young  soldier  got  in  this  expedition, 
for,  indeed,  the  Spaniards  made  no  stand  before  our  troops,  and 
were  not  in  strength  to  do  so. 

But  the  campaign,  if  not  very  glorious,  was  very  pleasant. 
New  sights  of  nature,  by  sea  and  land — a  life  of  action,  beginning 
now  for  the  first  time — occupied  and  excited  the  3'oung  man.     The 

246 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOx^D  347 

many  accidents  and  the  routine  of  shipboard — the  military  duty — 
the  new  acquaintances,  both  of  his  comrades  in  arms  and  of  the 
officers  of  the  fleet — served  to  cheer  and  occupy  his  mind,  and 
waken  it  out  of  that  selfish  depression  into  which  his  late  unhappy 
fortunes  had  plunged  him.  He  felt  as  if  the  ocean  separated  him 
from  his  j^ast  care,  and  vrelcomed  the  new  era  of  life  which  ,was 
dawning  for  him.  Wounds  heal  rapidly  in  a  heart  of  two-and' 
twenty;  hopes  revive  daily;  and  courage  rallies  in  spite  of  a  man. 
Perhaps,  as  Esmond  thought  of  his  late  despondency  and  melan- 
choly, and  how  irremediable  it  had  seemed  to  him,  as  he  lay  in  his 
prison  a  few  months  back,  he  was  almost  mortified  in  his  secret 
mind  at  finding  himself  so  cheerful. 

To  see  with  one's  own  eyes  men  and  countries,  is  better  than 
reading  all  the  books  of  travel  in  t*he  world:  and  it  was  with 
extreme  delight  and  exultation  that  the  young  man  found  himself 
actually  on  his  grand  tour,  and  in  the  view  of  people  and  cities 
which  he  had  read  about  as  a  boy.  He  beheld  war  for  the  first 
time — the  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  it,  at  least,  if  not  much 
of  the  danger.  He  saw  actually,  and  with  his  own  eyes,  those 
Spanish  cavaliers  and  ladies  whom  he  had  beheld  in  imagination  in 
that  immortal  story  of  Cervantes,  which  had  been  the  delight  of 
his  youthful  leisure.  'Tis  forty  years  since  Mr.  Esmond  witnessed 
those  scenes,  but  they  remain  as  fresh  in  his  memory  as  on  the  day 
when  first  he  saw  them  as  a  young  man.  A  cloud,  as  of  grief,  that 
had  lowered  over  him,  and  had  wrapped  the  last  years  of  his  life  in 
gloom,  seemed  to  clear  away  from  Esmond  during  this  fortunate 
voyage  and  campaign.  His  energies  seemed  to  awaken  and  to 
expand  under  a  cheerful  sense  of  freedom.  Was  his  heart  secretly 
glad  to  have  escaped  from  that  fond  but  ignoble  bondage  at  home? 
Was  it  that  the  inferiority  to  which  the  idea  of  his  base  birth  had 
compelled  him,  vanished  with  the  knowledge  of  that  secret,  which 
though,  perforce,  kept  to  himself,  was  yet  enough  to  cheer  and 
console  him?  At  any  rate,  young  Esmond  of  the  army  was  quite 
a  different  being  to  the  sad  little  dependant  of  the  kind  Castlewood 
household,  and  the  melanchol}'  student  of  Trinity  Walks;  discon 


348  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

tented  with  his  fate,  and  with  the  vocation  into  which  that  drove 
him,  and  thinking,  with  a  secret  indignation,  that  the  cassock  and 
bands,  and  the  very  sacred  office  with  which  he  had  once  proposed 
to  invest  himself,  were,  in  fact,  but  marks  of  a  servitude  which 
was  to  continue  all  his  life  long.  For,  disguise  it  as  he  might  to 
himself,  he  had  all  along  felt  that  to  be  Castlewood's  chaplain  was 
to  be  Castlewood's  inferior  still,  and  that  his  life  was  but  to  be  a 
long,  hopeless  servitude.  So,  indeed,  he  was  far  from  grudging  his 
old  friend  Tom  Tusher's  good  fortune  (as  Tom,  no  doubt,  thought 
it").  Had  it  been  a  mitre  and  Lambeth  which  his  friends  offered 
him,  and  not  a  small  living  and  a  country  parsonage,  he  would 
have  felt  as  much  a  slave  in  one  case  as  in  the  other,  and  was  quite 
happy  and  thankful  to  be  free. 

The  bravest  man  I  ever  knew  in  the  army,  and  who  had  been 
present  in  most  of  King  William's  actions,  as  well  as  in  the  cam- 
paigns of  the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough,  could  never  be  got  to 
tell  us  of  any  achievement  of  his,  except  that  once  Prince  Eugene 
ordered  him  up  a  tree  to  reconnoitre  the  enemj^  which  feat  he 
could  not  achieve  on  account  of  the  horseman's  boots  he  wore ;  and 
on  another  day  that  he  was  very  nearly  taken  prisoner  because  of 
these  jackboots,  which  prevented  him  from  running  away.  The 
present  narrator  shall  imitate  this  laudable  reserve,  and  doth  not 
intend  to  dwell  upon  his  military  exploits,  which  were  in  truth  not 
very  different  from  those  of  a  thousand  other  gentlemen.  This 
first  campaign  of  Mr.  Esmond's  lasted  but  a  few  days;  and  as  a 
score  of  books  have  been  written  concerning  it,  it  may  be  dismissed 
very  briefly  here. 

When  our  fleet  came  within  view  of  Cadiz,  our  commander  sent 
a  boat  with  a  white  flag  and  a  couple  of  officers  to  the  Governor  of 
Cadiz,  Don  Scipio  de  Brancaccio,  with  a  letter  from  his  Grace,  in 
which  he  hoped  that  as  Don  Scipio  had  formerly  served  with  the 
Austrians  against  the  French,  'twas  to  be  hoped  that  his  Excellency 
wculd  now  declare  himself  against  the  French  King,  and  for  the 
Austrian,  in  the  war  between  King  Philip  and  King  Charles.  But 
his    Excellency,    Don    Scipio,    prepared    a    reply,    in    which    he 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  249 

announced  that,  having  served  his  former  king  with  honour  and 
fidelit}',  he  hoped  to  exhibit  the  same  loyalty  and  devotion  towards 
his  present  sovereign,  King  Philip  V. ;  and  by  the  time  this  letter 
was  ready,  the  two  officers  had  been  taken  to  see  the  town,  and  the 
Alameda,  and  the  theatre,  where  bull-fights  are  fought,  and  the 
convents,  where  the  admirable  works  of  Don  Bartholomew  Murillo 
inspired  one  of  them  with  a  great  wonder  and  delight — such  as  he 
had  never  felt  before — concerning  this  divine  art  of  painting;  and 
these  sights  over,  and  a  handsome  refection  and  chocolate  being 
served  to  the  English  gentlemen,  they  were  accompanied  back  to 
their  shallop  with  every  courtesy,  and  were  the  only  two  officers  of 
the  English  army  that  saw  at  that  time  that  famous  city. 

The  general  tried  the  power  of  another  proclamation  on  the 
Spaniards,  in  which  he  announced  that  we  only  came  in  the  inter- 
est of  Spain  and  King  Charles,  and  for  ourselves  wanted  to  make 
no  conquest  nor  settlement  in  Spain  at  all.  But  all  this  eloquence 
was  lost  upon  the  Spaniards,  it  would  seem ;  the  Captain-General 
of  Andalusia  would  no  more  listen  to  us  than  the  Governor  of 
Cadiz ;  and  in  reply  to  his  Grace's  proclamation,  the  Marquis  of 
Villadarias  fired  off  another,  which  those  who  knew  the  Spanish 
thought  rather  the  best  of  the  two ;  and  of  this  number  was  Harry 
Esmond,  whose  kind  Jesuit  in  old  days  had  instructed  him,  and 
who  now  had  the  honour  of  translating  for  his  Grace  these  harm- 
less documents  of  war.  There  was  a  hard  touch  for  his  Grace, 
and,  indeed,  for  other  generals  in  her  Majesty's  service,  in  the  con- 
cluding sentence  of  the  Don;  "That  he  and  his  council  had  the 
generous  example  of  their  ancestors  to  follow,  who  had  never  yet 
sought  their  elevation  in  the  blood  or  in  the  flight  of  their  kings. 
'Mori  pro  patria'  was  his  device,  which  the  Duke  might  communi- 
cate to  the  Princess  who  governed  England.*' 

.Whether  the  troops  were  angry  at  this  repartee  or  no,  'tis 

certain  something  put  them  in  a  fury ;  for,  not  being  able  to  get 

possession  of  Cadiz,  our  people  seized  upon  Port  St.  Mary's  and 

i  sacked  it,  burning  down  the  merchants'  storehouses,  getting  drunk 

with  the  famous  wines  there,  pillaging  and  robbing  quiet  houses 


250  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

and  convents,  murdering  and  doing  worse.  And  the  only  blood 
which  Mr.  Esmond  drew  in  this  shameful  campaign,  was  the 
knocking  down  an  English  sentinel  with  a  half -pike,  who  was  offer- 
ing insult  to  a  poor  trembling  nun.  Is  she  going  to  turn  out  a 
beauty?  or  a  princess?  or  perhaps  Esmond's  mother  tiiat  he  liad 
lost  and  never  seen?  Alas  no:  it  was  but  a  poor  wheezy  old  drop- 
sical woman,  with  a  wart  upon  her  nose.  But  having  been  early 
taught  a  part  of  the  Roman  religion,  he  never  had  the  horroi 
of  it  that  some  Protestants  have  shown,  and  seem  to  think  to  be  a 
part  of  ours. 

After  the  pillage  and  plunder  of  St.  Mary's,  and  an  assault  upon 
a  fort  or  two,  the  troops  all  took  shipping,  and  finished  their  expe- 
dition, at  any  rate,  more  brilliantly  than  it  had  begun.  Hearing 
that  the  French  fleet  with  a  great  treasure  was  in  Vigo  Bay,  our 
Admirals,  Rooke  and  Hopson,  pursued  the  enemy  thither;  the 
troops  landed  and  carried  the  forts  that  protected  the  bay,  Hopson 
passing  the  boom  first  on  board  his  ship  the  Tor-bay,  and  the  rest  of 
the  ships,  English  and  Dutch,  following  him.  Twenty  ships  were 
burned  or  taken  in  the  port  of  Redondilla,  and  a  vast  deal  more 
plunder  than  was  ever  accounted  for;  but  poor  men  before  that 
expedition  were  rich  afterwards,  and  so  often  was  it  found  and 
remarked  that  the  Vigo  officers  came  home  with  pockets  full 
of  money,  that  the  notorious  Jack  Shafto,  who  made  such  a 
figure  at  the  coffee-houses  and  gaming-tables  in  London,  and  gave 
out  that  he  had  been  a  soldier  at  Vigo,  owned,  when  he  was  about 
to  be  hanged,  that  Bagshot  Heath  had  been  his  Vigo,  and  that  he 
only  spoke  of  La  Redondilla  to  turn  away  people's  eyes  from  the 
redl  place  where  the  boot}'  lay.  Indeed,  Hounslow  or  Vigo — which 
matters  much?  The  latter  vv-as  a  bad  business,  though  Mr.  Addison 
did  sing  its  praises  in  Latin.  That  honest  gentleman's  muse  had 
an  eye  to  the  main  chance ;  and  I  doubt  whether  she  saw  much 
Inspiration  in  the  losing  side. 

But  though  Esmond,  for  his  part,  got  no  share  of  this  fabulous 
booty,  one  great  prize  which  he  had  out  of  the  campaign  was,  that 
excitement  of  action  and  change  of  scene,  which  shook  off  a  great 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  251 

deal  of  his  previous  melancholy.  He  learnt  at  any  rate  to  bear  his 
fate  cheerfully.  He  brought  back  a  browned  face,  a  heart  resolute 
enough,  and  a  little  pleasant  store  of  knowledge  and  observation, 
from  that  exj)edition,  which  was  over  with  the  autumn,  when  the 
troops  were  back  in  England  again;  and  Esmond  giving  up  his 
post  of  secretary  to  General  Lumley,  whose  command  was  over, 
and  parting  with  that  officer  with  many  kind  expressions  of  good- 
will on  the  General's  side,  had  leave  to  go  to  London,  to  see  if  he 
could  push  his  fortunes  any  way  further,  and  found  himself  once 
more  in  his  dowager  aunt's  comfortable  quarters  at  Chelsey,  and  in 
greater  favour  than  ever  with  the  old  lady.  He  propitiated  her 
with  a  present  of  a  comb,  a  fan,  and  a  black  mantle,  such  as  the 
ladies  of  Cadiz  wear,  and  which  my  Lady  Viscountess  pronounced 
became  her  style  of  beauty  mightily.  And  she  was  greatly  edified 
at  hearing  of  that  story  of  his  rescue  of  the  nun,  and  felt  very 
little  doubt  but  that  her  King  James's  relic,  which  he  had  always 
dutifully  worn  in  his  desk,  had  kept  him  out  of  danger,  and 
averted  the  shot  of  the  enemy.  My  Lady  made  feasts  for  him, 
introduced  him  to  more  company,  and  pushed  his  fortunes  with 
such  enthusiasm  and  success,  that  she  got  a  promise  of  a  company 
for  him  through  the  Lady  Marlborough's  interest,  who  was 
graciously  pleased  to  accept  of  a  diamond  worth  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred guineas,  which  Mr.  Esmond  was  enabled  to  present  to  her 
Ladj^ship  through  his  aunt's  bounty,  and  who  promised  that  she 
would  take  charge  of  Esmond's  fortune.  He  had  the  honour  to 
make  his  appearance  at  the  Queen's  Drawing-room  occasionally, 
and  to  frequent  my  Lord  Marlborough's  levees.  The  great  man 
received  the  young  one  with  very  especial  favour,  so  Esmond's  com- 
rades said,  and  deigned  to  say  that  he  had  received  the  best  reports 
of  Mr.  Esmond,  both  for  courage  and  ability,  whereon  you  may  be 
sure  the  young  gentleman  made  a  profound  bow,  and  expressed 
himself  eager  to  serve  under  the  most  distinguished  captain  in  the 
world. 

Whilst  his  busines.'  vvas  going  on  thus  prosperously,  Esmond  had 
his  share  of  pleasure  coo,   and   made  his  appearance  along  with 


252  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

other  young  gentlemen  at  the  coffee-houses,  the  theatres,  and  the 
Mall.  He  longed  to  hear  of  his  dear  mistress  and  her  family: 
many  a  time,  in  the  midst  of  the  gaieties  and  pleasures  of  the  town, 
his  heart  fondly  reverted  to  them ;  and  often,  as  the  young  fellows 
of  his  society  were  making  merry  at  the  tavern,  and  calling  toasts 
(as  the  fashion  of  that  day  was)  over  their  wine,  Esmond  thought 
of  persons — of  two  fair  women,  whom  he  had  been  used  to  adore 
almost — and  emptied  his  glass  with  a  sigh. 

By  this  time  the  elder  Viscountess  liad  grown  tired  again  of  the 
younger,  and  whenever  she  spoke  of  my  Lord's  widow,  'twas  in 
terms  by  no  means  complimentary  towards  that  poor  lady:  the 
younger  woman  not  needing  her  protection  any  longer,  the  elder 
abused  her.  Most  of  the  family  quarrels  that  I  have  seen  in  life 
(saving  always  those  arising  from  money-disputes,  when  a  division 
of  twopence  halfpenny  will  often  drive  the  dearest  relatives  into 
war  and  estrangement)  spring  out  of  jealousy  and  envy.  Jack  and 
Tom,  born  of  the  same  family  and  to  the  same  fortune,  live  very 
cordially  together,  not  until  Jack  is  ruined,  when  Tom  deserts  him, 
but  until  Tom  makes  a  sudden  rise  in  prosperity,  which  Jack  can't 
forgive.  Ten  times  to  one  'tis  the  unprosperous  man  that  is  angry, 
not  the  other  who  is  in  fault.  'Tis  Mrs.  Jack,  who  can  only  afford 
a  chair,  that  sickens  at  Mrs.  Tom's  new  coach-and-six,  cries  out 
against  her  sister's  airs,  and  sets  her  husband  against  his  brother. 
'Tis  Jack  who  sees  his  brother  shaking  hands  with  a  lord  (with 
whom  Jack  would  like  to  exchange  snuffboxes  himself),  that  goes 
home  and  tells  his  wife  how  poor  Tom  is  spoiled,  he  fears,  and  no 
better  than  a  sneak,  parasite,  and  beggar  on  horseback.  I  remem- 
ber how  furious  the  coffee-house  wits  were  with  Dick  Steele  when 
he  set  up  his  coach  and  fine  house  at  Bloomsbury ;  they  began  to 
forgive  him  when  the  bailiffs  were  after  him,  and  abused  Mr.  Addi- 
son for  selling  Dick's  country  house.  And  yet  Dick  in  the 
spunging-house,  or  Dick  in  the  Park,  with  his  four  mares  and 
plated  harness,  was  exactly  tlie  same  gentle,  kindly,  improvident, 
jovial  Dick  Steele:  and  yet  Mr.  Addison  was  perfectly  right  in 
getting  the  money  which  was  his,  and  nof  giving  up  the  amount  of 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  253 

his  just  claim,  to  be  spent  by  Dick  upon  champagne  and  fiddlers, 
laced  clothes,  fine  furniture,  and  parasites,  Jew  and  Christian, 
male  and  female,  who  clung  to  him.  As,  according  to  the  famous 
maxim  of  Monsieur  de  Rochefoucault,  "in  our  friends'  misfortunes 
there's  something  secretly  pleasant  to  us;*'  so,  on  the  other  hand, 
their  good  fortune  is  disagreeable.  If  'tis  hard  for  a  man  to  bear 
his  own  good  luck,  'tis  harder  still  for  his  friends  to  bear  it  for  him ; 
and  but  few  of  them  ordinarily  can  stand  that  trial:  whereas  one 
of  the  "precious  uses''  of  adversity  is,  that  it  is  a  great  reconciler; 
that  it  brings  back  averted  kindness,  disarms  animosity,  and  causes 
yesterday's  enemy  to  fling  his  hatred  aside,  and  hold  out  a  hand  to 
the  fallen  friend  of  old  days.  There's  pity  and  love,  as  well  as 
envy,  in  the  same  heart  and  towards  the  same  person.  The  rivalry 
stops  when  the  competitor  tumbles;  and,  as  I  view  it,  we  should 
look  at  these  agreeable  and  disagreeable  qualities  of  our  humanity 
humbly  alike.  They  are  consequent  and  natural,  and  our  kindness 
and  meanness  both  manly. 

So  you  may  either  read  the  sentence,  that  the  elder  of  Esmond's 
two  kinswomen  pardoned  the  younger  her  beauty,  when  that  had 
lost  somewhat  of  its  freshness,  perhaps;  and  forgot  most  her 
grievances  against  the  other  when  the  subject  of  them  was  no 
longer  prosperous  and  enviable;  or  we  ma}^  say  more  benevolently 
(but  the  sum  comes  to  the  same  figures,  worked  either  way),  that 
Isabella  repented  of  her  unkindness  towards  Rachel,  when  Rachel 
was  unhappy;  and,  bestirring  herself  in  behalf  of  the  j^oor  widow 
and  her  children,  gave  them  shelter  and  friendship.  The  ladies 
were  quite  good  friends  as  long  as  the  weaker  one  needed  a  pro- 
tector. Before  Esmond  went  away  on  his  first  campaign,  his 
mistress  was  still  on  terms  of  friendship  (though  a  poor  little  chit, 
a  woman  that  had  evidently  no  spirit  in  her,  &c.)  with  the  elder 
Lady  Castlewood;  and  Mistress  Beatrix  was  allowed  to  be  a 
beauty. 

But  between  the  first  year  of  Queen  Anne's  reign  and  the 
second,  sad  changes  for  the  worse  had  taken  place  in  the  two 
younger  ladies,  at  least  in  the  elder's  description  of  them.     Rachel, 


254  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

\' iscountess  Castle  wood,  had  no  more  face  than  a  dumpling,  and 
Mrs.  Beatrix  was  grown  quite  coarse,  and  was  losing  all  her  beauty. 
Little  Lord  Blandford — (she  never  would  call  him  Lord  Blandford; 
his  father  was  Lord  Churchill — the  King,  whom  he  betrayed,  had 
made  him  Lord  Churchill,  and  he  was  Lord  Churchill  still) — might 
be  making  eyes  at  her;  but  his  mother,  that  vixen  of  a  Sarah 
Jennings,  would  never  hear  of  such  a  folly.  Lady  Marlborough 
had  got  her  to  be  a  maid  of  honour  at  Court  to  the  Princess, 
but  she  would  repent  of  it.  The  widow  Francis  (she  was  but 
Mrs.  Francis  Esmond)  was  a  scheming,  artful,  heartless  hussy.  She 
was  spoiling  her  brat  of  a  boy,  and  she  would  end  by  marrying  her 
chaplain. 

"What,  Tusher!"  cried  Mr.  Esmond,  feeling  a  strange  pang  of 
rage  and  astonishment. 

"Yes — Tusher,  my  maid's  son;  and  who  has  got  all  the  qualities 
of  his  father  the  lacquey  in  black,  and  his  accomplished  mamma 
the  waiting-woman,"  cries  my  Lady.  "What  do  you  suppose  that 
a  sentimental  widow,  who  will  live  down  in  that  dingy  dungeon  of 
a  Castlewood,  w^here  she  spoils  her  boy,  kills  the  poor  with  her 
drugs,  has  prayers  twice  a  day,  and  sees  nobody  but  the  chaplain — 
what  do  you  suppose  she  can  do,  mon  cousin,  but  let  the  horrid 
parson,  with  his  great  square  toes  and  hideous  little  green  eyes, 
make  love  to  her?  Cela  c'est  vu,  mon  cousin.  When  I  was  a  girl 
at  Castlewood,  all  the  chaplains  fell  in  love  with  me — they've 
nothing  else  to  do.'' 

My  Lady  went  on  with  more  talk  of  this  kind,  though,  in  truth, 
Esmond  had  no  idea  of  what  she  said  further,  so  entirely  did  her 
first  words  occupy  his  thought.  Were  they  true?  Not  all,  nor 
half,  nor  a  tenth  part  of  what  the  garrulous  old  woman  said,  was 
true.  Could  this  be  so?  No  ear  had  Esmond  for  anything  else, 
though  his  patroness  chatted  on  for  an  hour. 

Some  young  gentlemen  of  the  town,  with  whom  Esmond  had 
made  acquaintance,  had  promised  to  present  him  to  that  most 
charming  of  actresses,  and  lively  and  agreeable  of  women,  Mrs. 
Bracegirdle,  ^bout  whom  Harry's  old  adversary  Mohun  had  drawn 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  255 

swords,  a  few  years  before  my  poor  Lord  and  he  fell  out.  The 
famous  Mr.  Congreve  had  stamped  with  his  high  approval,  to  the 
which  there  was  no  gainsaying,  this  delightful  person:  and  she  was 
acting  in  Dick  Steele's  comedies  and  finai]3^  and  for  twenty-four 
hours  after  beholding  her,  Mr.  Esmond  felt  himself,  or  thought 
himself,  to  be  as  violentl}^  enamoured  of  this  lovely  brunette,  as 
were  a  thousand  other  young  fellows  about  the  city.  To  have  once 
seen  her  was  to  long  to  behold  her  again ;  and  to  be  offered  the 
delightful  privilege  of  her  acquaintance,  was  a  pleasure  the  very 
idea  of  which  set  the  young  lieutenant's  heart  on  fire.  A  man 
cannot  live  with  comrades  under  the  tents  without  finding  out  that 
he  too  is  five-and- twenty.  A  young  fellow  cannot  be  cast  down  by 
grief  and  misfortune  ever  so  severe  but  some  night  he  begins  to 
sleep  sound,  and  some  day  when  dinner-time  comes  to  feel  hungry 
for  a  beefsteak.  Time,  youth  and  good  health,  new  scenes  and  the 
excitement  of  action  and  a  campaign,  had  pretty  well  brought 
Esmond's  mourning  to  an  end;  and  his  comrades  said  that  Don 
Dismal,  as  they  called  him,  was  Don  Dismal  no  more.  So  when  a 
party  was  made  to  dine  at  the  "Rose,"  and  go  to  the  playhouse 
afterward,  Esmond  was  as  pleased  as  another  to  take  his  share  of 
the  bottle  and  the  play. 

How  was  it  that  the  old  aunt's  news,  or  it  might  be  scandal, 
about  Tom  Tusher,  caused  such  a  strange  and  sudden  excitement  in 
Tom's  old  playfellow?  Hadn't  he  sworn  a  thousand  times  in  his 
own  mind  that  the  Lad}^  of  Castlewood,  who  had  treated  him  with 
'such  kindness  once,  and  then  had  left  him  so  cruelly,  was,  and  was  to 
remain  henceforth,  indifferent  to  him  for  ever?  Had  his  pride  and 
his  sense  of  justice  not  long  since  helped  him  to  cure  the  pain  of  that 
desertion — was  it  even  a  pain  to  him  now?  Why,  but  last  night  as 
he  walked  across  the  fields  and  meadows  to  Chelsey  from  Pall  Mall, 
had  he  not  composed  t\vo  or  three  stanzas  of  a  song,  celebrating 
Eracegirdle's  brown  eyes,  and  declaring  them  a  thousand  times 
more  beautiful  than  tlie  brightest  blue  ones  that  ever  languished 
under  the  lashes  of  an  insipid  fair  beauty!  But  Tom  Tusher!  Tom 
Tusher,   tlie  waiting-woman's  son,  raising  vip  his  little  eyes  lo  his 


:356  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

mistress!  Tom  Tusher  presuming  to  think  of  Castlewood's  widow! 
Rage  and  contempt  filled  Mr.  Harry's  heart  at  the  very  notion;  the 
honour  of  the  family,  of  which  he  was  the  chief,  made  it  his  duty 
to  prevent  so  monstrous  an  alliance,  and  to  chastise  tlie  upstart 
who  could  dare  to  think  of  such  an  insult  to  their  house.  'Tis  true 
Mr.  Esmond  often  boasted  of  republican  principles,  and  could 
remember  many  fine  speeches  he  had  made  at  college  and  else- 
where, with  worth  and  not  hirth  for  a  text:  but  Tom  Tusher  to 
take  the  place  of  the  noble  Castlewood — faugh!  'twas  as  monstrous 
as  King  Hamlet's  widow  taking  off  her  weeds  for  Claudius. 
Esmond  laughed  at  all  widows,  all  wives,  all  women;  and  were  the 
banns  about  to  be  published,  as  no  doubt  they  were,  that  very  next 
Sunday  at  Walcote  Church,  Esmond  swore  that  he  would  be 
present  to  shout  No!  in  the  face  of  the  congregation,  and  to  take  a 
private  revenge  upon  the  ears  of  the  bridegroom. 

Instead  of  going  to  dinner  then  at  the  "Rose"  that  night,  Mr. 
Esmond  bade  his  servant  pack  a  portmanteau  and  get  horses,  and 
was  at  Farnham,  half-way  on  the  road  to  Walcote,  thirty  miles  off, 
before  his  comrades  had  got  to  their  supper  after  the  play.  He 
bade  his  man  give  no  hint  to  my  Lady  Dowager's  household  of  the 
expedition  on  which  he  was  going:  and  as  Chelsey  was  distant 
from  London,  the  roads  bad,  and  infested  by  footpads,  and  Esmond 
often  in  the  habit,  when  engaged  in  a  party  of  pleasure,  of  lying 
at  a  friend's  lodging  in  town,  there  was  no  need  that  his  old  aunt 
should  be  disturbed  at  his  absence — indeed,  nothing  more  delighted 
the  old  lady  than  to  fancy  that  mon  cousin,  the  incorrigible  young 
sinner,  was  abroad  boxing  the  watch,  or  scouring  St.  Giles's. 
When  she  was  not  at  her  books  of  devotion,  she  thought  Etheredge 
and  Sedley  very  good  reading.  She  had  a  hundred  pretty  stories 
about  Rochester,  Harry  Jermyn,  and  Hamilton;  and  if  Esmond 
would  but  have  run  away  with  the  wife  even  of  a  citizen,  'tis  my 
belief  she  would  have  pawned  her  diamonds  (the  best  of  them  went 
to  our  Lady  of  Chaillot)  to  pay  his  damages. 

My  Lord's  little  house  of  Walcote — which  he  inhabited  before 
he  took  his  title  and  occupied  the  house  of  Castlewood — lies  about 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESBIOND  257 

a  mile  from  Wincliester,  and  his  widow  had  returned  to  Walcote 
after  my  Lord's  death  as  a  place  always  dear  to  her,  and  where  her 
earliest  and  happiest  days  had  been  spent,  cheerfuUer  than  Castle- 
wood,  which  was  too  large  for  her  straitened  means,  and  giving 
her,  too,  the  protection  of  the  ex-Dean,  her  father.  The  young 
Viscount  had  a  year's  schooling  at  the  famous  college  there,  with 
Mr.  Tusher  as  his  governor.  So  much  news  of  them  Mr.  Esmond 
had  had  during  the  past  year  from  the  old  Viscountess,  his  own 
father's  widow;  from  the  young  one  there  had  never  been  a  word. 

Twice  or  thrice  in  his  benefactor's  lifetime,  Esmond  had  been  to 
Walcote ;  and  now,  taking  but  a  couple  of  hours'  rest  only  at  the 
inn  on  the  road,  he  was  up  again  long  before  daybreak,  and  made 
such  good  speed  that  he  was  at  Walcote  by  two  o'clock  of  the  day. 
He  rid  to  the  end  of  the  village,  where  he  alighted  and  sent  a  man 
thence  to  Mr.  Tusher,  with  a  message  that  a  gentleman  from  Lon- 
don would  speak  with  him  on  urgent  business.  The  messenger 
came  back  to  say  the  Doctor  was  in  town,  most  likely  at  prayers  in 
the  Cathedral.  My  Lady  Viscountess  was  there  too;  she  always 
went  to  Cathedral  prayers  every  day. 

The  horses  belonged  to  the  post-house  at  Winchester.  Esmond 
mounted  again  and  rode  on  to  the  "George";  whence  he  walked, 
leaving  his  grumbling  domestic  at  last  happy  with  a  dinner, 
straight  to  the  Cathedral.  The  organ  was  playing,  the  winter's  day 
was  already  growing  grey,  as  he  passed  under  the  street-arch  into 
the  Cathedral  yard,  and  made  his  way  into  the  ancient  solemn 
edifice. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  29TH  DECEMBER 


There  was  scarce  a  score  of  persons  in  the  Cathedral  beside  the 
Dean  and  some  of  his  clergy,  and  the  choristers,  young  and  old, 
that  performed  the  beautiful  evening  prayer.  But  Mr.  Tusher  was 
one  of  the  officiants,  and  read  from  the  eagle  in  an  authoritative 
voice,  and  a  great  black  periwig;  and  in  the  stalls,  still  in  her  black 
widow's  hood,  sat  Esmond's  dear  mistress,  her  son  by  her  side,  very 
much  grown,  and  indeed  a  noble-looking  youth,  with  liis  mother's 
eyes,  and  his  father's  curling  brown  hair,  that  fell  over  his  jmint 
de  Venise—a  pretty  picture  such  as  Vandyke  might  have  painted. 
Monsieur  Rigaud's  portrait  of  my  Lord  Viscount,  done  at  Paris 
afterwards,  gives  but  a  French  version  of  his  manly,  frank,  English 
face.  When  he  looked  up  there  were  two  sapphire  beams  out  of 
his  eyes  such  as  no  painter's  palette  has  the  colour  to  match,  I 
think.  On  this  day  there  was  not  much  chance  of  seeing  that 
particular  beauty  of  my  young  Lord's  countenance ;  for  the  truth 
is,  he  kept  his  eyes  shut  for  the  most  part,  and,  the  anthem  being 
rather  long,  was  asleep. 

But  the  music  ceasing,  my  Lord  woke  up,  looking  about  him, 
and  his  eyes  lighting  on  Mr.  Esmond,  who  was  sitting  opposite 
him,  gazing  with  no  small  tenderness  and  melancholy  upon  two 
persons  who  had  so  much  of  his  heart  for  so  many  years,  Lord 
Castlewood,  with  a  start,  pulled  at  his  mother's  sleeve  (her  face  had 
scarce  been  lifted  from  her  book),  and  said,  "Look,  mother!"  so 
loud,  that  Esmond  could  hear  on  the  other  side  of  the  churcli,  and 
the  old  Dean  on  his  throned  stall.  Lady  Castlewood  looked  for  an 
instant  as  her  son  bade  her,  and  held  up  a  warning  finger  to  Frank; 
Esmond  felt  his  whole  face  flush,  and  his  heart  throbbing,  as  that 
dear  lady  beheld  him  once  more.     The  rest  of  the  i:)rayers  were 

258 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  259 

speedily  over;  Mr.  Esmond  did  not  hear  them;  nor  did  his  mistress, 
very  likely,  whose  hood  went  more  closely  over  her  face,  and  who 
never  lifted  her  head  again  until  the  service  was  over,  the  blessing 
given,  and  Mr.  Dean,  and  his  procession  of  ecclesiastics,  out  of  the 
inner  chapel. 

Young  Castlewood  came  clambering  over  the  stalls  beiore  the 
clergy  were  fairly  gone,  and  running  up  to  Esmond,  eagerly 
embraced  him.  "My  dear,  dearest  old  Harry!*'  he  said,  "are  you 
come  back?  Have  you  been  to  the  wars?  You'll  take  me  with  you 
wlien  you  go  again?  Why  didn't  you  write  to  us?  Come  to 
mother!" 

Mr.  Esmond  could  hardly  say  more  than  a  "God  bless  you,  my 
boy!"  for  his  heart  was  very  full  and  grateful  at  all  this  tenderness 
on  the  lad's  part;  and  he  was  as  much  moved  at  seeing  Frank  as  he 
w^as  fearful  about  that  other  interview  which  was  now  to  take  * 
place:  for  he  knew  not  if  the  widow  would  reject  him  as  she  had 
done  so  cruelly  a  year  ago. 

'It  was  kind  of  you  to  come  back  to  us,  Henry,"  Lady  Esmond 
said.     "I  thought  you  might  come.*' 

"We  read  of  the  fleet  coming  to  Portsmouth.  Why  did  you  not 
come  from  Portsmouth?''  Frank  asked,  or  my  Lord  Viscount,  as  he 
now  must  be  called. 

Esmond  had  thought  of  that  too.  He  would  have  given  one  of 
his  eyes  so  that  he  might  see  his  dear  friends  again  once  more;  but 
believing  that  his  mistress  ^lad  forbidden  him  her  house,  he  had 
obeyed  her,  and  remained  at  a  distance. 

"You  had  but  to  ask,  and  you  knew  I  would  be  here,"  he  said. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  her  little  fair  hand;  there  w^as  only  her 
marriage  ring  on  it.  Tlie  quarrel  was  all  over.  The  year  of  grief 
and  estrangement  was  passed.  They  never  had  been  separated 
His  mistress  had  never  been  out  of  his  mind  all  that  time.  No,  not 
once.  No,  not  in  the  prison ;  nor  in  the  camp ;  nor  on  shore  before 
the  enemy;  nor  at  sea  under  the  stars  of  solemn  midnight;  nor  as 
he  watched  the  glorious  rising  of  the  dawn:  not  even  at  the  table, 
where  he  sat  carousing  with  friends,   or  at  the  theatre  yonder, 


260  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

where   he    tried  to    fancy  that    other    eyes  were  brighter  than 
hers. 

Brigliter  eyes  there  might  be,  and  faces  more  beautiful,  but  none 
so  dear—  no  voice  so  sweet  as  that  of  his  beloved  mistress,  who  had 
been  sister,  mother,  goddess  to  him  during  his  youth — goddess  now 
no  more,  for  he  knew  of  her  weaknesses ;  and  by  thought,  by  suffer- 
ing, and  that  experience  it  brings,  was  older  now  than  she ;  but 
more  fondly  cherished  as  woman  perhaps  than  ever  she  had  been 
adored  as  divinity.  What  is  it?  Where  lies  it?  the  secret  which 
makes  one  little  hand  the  dearest  of  all?  Whoever  can  unriddle 
that  mystery?  Here  she  was,  her  son  by  his  side,  his  dear  boy. 
Here  she  was,  weeping  and  happy.  She  took  his  hand  in  both  hers ; 
he  felt  her  tears.     It  was  a  rapture  of  reconciliation. 

"Here  comes  Squaretoes,"  says  Frank.     "Here's  Tuslier." 

Tusher,  indeed,  now  appeared,  creaking  on  his  great  heels.  Mr. 
Tom  had  divested  himself  of  his  alb  or  surplice,  and  came  forward 
habited  in  his  cassock  and  great  black  periwig.  How  had  Esmond 
ever  been  for  a  moment  jealous  of  this  fellow? 

"Give  us  thy  hand,  Tom  Tusher,"  he  said.  The  Chaplain  made 
him  a  very  low  and  stately  bow.  "I  am  charmed  to  see  Captain 
Esmond,"  says  he.  "My  Lord  and  I  have  read  the  Reddas  incolu- 
mem  precor,  and  applied  it,  I  am  sure,  to  you.  You  come  back 
with  Gaditanian  laurels ;  when  I  heard  you  were  bound  thither,  I 
wished,  I  am  sure,  I  was  another  Septimius.  My  Lord  Viscount, 
your  Lordship  remembers  Septimi,  Gades  aditure  mecum?''' 

'There's  an  angle  of  earth  that  I  love  better  than  Gades, 
Tusher,"  says  Mr.  Esmond.  " 'Tis  that  one  where  your  reverence 
hath  a  parsonage,  and  where  our  youth  was  brought  up." 

'A  house  that  has  so  many  sacred  recollections  to  me,'*  says  Mr. 
Tusher  (and  Harry  remembered  how  Tom's  father  used  to  flog  him 
there) — "a  house  near  to  that  of  my  respected  patron,  my  most 
honoured  patroness,  must  ever  be  a  dear  abode  to  me.  But, 
madam,  the  verger  waits  to  close  the  gates  on  your  Ladyship." 

"And  Harry's  coming  home  to  supper.  Huzzaj'!  liuzzay!"  cries 
my  Lord.     "Mother,   I  shall  run  home  and  bid  Beatrix  put  her 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  261 

ribands  on.  Beatrix  is  a  maid  of  lionour,  Harry.  Such  a  fine 
set-up  minx!" 

"Your  heart  was  never  in  the  Church,  Harry,"  the  widow  said, 
in  her  sweet  low  tone,  as  they  walked  away  together.  (Now,  it 
seemed  they  had  never  been  parted,  and  again,  as  if  they  had  been 
ages  asunder.)  "I  always  thought  you  had  no  vocation  that  way; 
and  that  'twas  a  pity  to  shut  you  out  from  tlie  world.  You  would 
but  have  pined  and  chafed  at  Castlewood:  and  'tis  better  you 
sliould  make  a  name  for  yourself.  I  often  said  so  to  my  dear  Lord. 
How  he  loved  you!     'Twas  my  Lord  that  made  you  stay  with  us." 

"I  asked  no  better  than  to  stay  near  you  always,"  said  Mr. 
Esmond. 

"But  to  go  w^as  best,  Harry.  When  the  world  cannot  give 
peace,  you  will  _know  where  to  find  it;  but  one  of  your  strong  imag- 
ination and  eager  desires  must  try  the  world  first  before  he  tires  of 
it.  'Twas  not  to  be  thought  of,  or  if  it  once  was,  it  was  only  by 
my  selfishness,  that  you  should  remain  as  chaplain  to  a  country 
gentleman  and  tutor  to  a  little  boy.  You  are  of  the  blood  of  the 
Esmonds,  kinsman;  and  that  was  always  wild  in  youth.  Look  at 
Francis.  He  is  but  fifteen,  and  I  scarce  can  keep  him  in  my  nest. 
His  talk  is  all  of  war  and  pleasure,  and  he  longs  to  serve  in  the 
next  campaign.  Perhaps  he  and  the  young  Lord  Churchill  sliall  go 
the  next.  Lord  Marlborough  has  been  good  to  us.  You  know  how 
kind  they  were  in  my  misfortune.  And  so  was  your— your  father's 
widow.  No  one  knows  how  good  the  world  is,  till  grief  comes 
to  try  us.  'Tis  through  my  Lady  Marlborough's  goodness  that 
Beatrix  hath  her  place  at  Court;  and  Frank  is  under  my  Lord 
Chamberlain.  And  the  dowager  lady,  your  father's  widow,  has 
promised  to  provide  for  you — has  she  not?" 

Esmond  said,  "Yes.  As  far  as  present  favour  went.  Lady 
Castlewood  was  very  good  to  him.  And  should  her  mind  change," 
he  added  gaily,  "as  ladies'  minds  will,  I  am  strong  enougli  to  bear  my 
own  burden,  and  make  my  way  somehow.  Not  by  the  sword  very 
likely.  Thousands  liave  a  better  genius  for  that  than  I,  but  there 
are  many  ways  in  whicli  a  young  man  of  good  parts  and  education 


263  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

can  get  on  in  the  world ;  and  I  am  pretty  sure,  one  way  or  other,  of 
promotion!"'  Indeed,  he  had  found  patrons  akeady  in  the  army, 
and  amongst  persons  very  able  to  serve  him  too;  and  told  his  mis- 
tress of  the  flattering  aspect  of  fortune.  They  walked  as  though 
they  had  never  been  parted,  slowly,  with  the  grey  twilight  closing 
round  them. 

"And  now  we  are  drawing  near  to  home,"  she  continued,  "I 
knew  you  would  come,  Harry,  if — if  it  was  but  to  forgive  me  for 
having  spoken  unjustly  to  you  after  that  horrid — horrid  misfor- 
tune. I  was  half  frantic  with  grief  then  when  I  saw  you.  And  I 
know  now — they  have  told  me.  That  wretch,  whose  name  I  can 
never  mention,  even  has  said  it:  how  you  tried  to  avert  the  quarrel, 
and  would  have  taken  it  on  yourself,  my  poor  child;  but  it  was 
God's  will  that  I  should  be  punished,  and  that  my  dear  lord  should 
fall." 

"He  gave  me  his  blessing  on  his  deathbed,"  Esmond  said. 
"Thank  God  for  that  legacy!" 

"Amen,  amen!  dear  Henry,"  said  the  lady,  pressing  his  arm. 
"I  knew  it.  Mr.  Atterbury,  of  St.  Bride's,  who  was  called  to  him, 
told  me  so.  And  I  thanked  God,  too,  and  in  my  prayers  ever  since 
remembered  it." 

"You  had  spared  me  many  a  bitter  night,  had  you  told  me 
sooner,-'  Mr.  Esmond  said. 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  such  sweet 
humility,  as  made  Esmond  repent  that  he  should  ever  have  dared 
to  reproach  her.  "I  know  how  wicked  my  heart  has  been;  and  I 
have  suffered  too,  my  dear.  I  confessed  to  Mr.  Atterbury — I  must 
not  tell  any  more.  He — I  said  I  would  not  write  to  you  or  go  to 
you — and  it  was  better  even  that,  having  parted,  we  should  part. 
But  I  knew  you  would  come  back — I  own  that.  That  is  no  one's 
fault.  And  to-day,  Henry,  in  the  anthem,  when  they  sang  it, 
'When  the  Lord  turned  the  captivity  of  Zion,  we  were  like  thenx 
that  dream,'  I  thought,  yes,  like  them  that  dream — them  that 
dream.  And  then  it  went,  'They  that  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in 
joy ;  and  he  that  goeth  forth  and  weepeth,  shall  doubtless   come 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  263 

again  with  rejoicing,  bringing  his  sheaves  with  him;'  I  looked  up 
from  the  book,  and  saw  you.  I  was  not  surprised  when  I  saw  you. 
I  knew  you  would  come,  my  dear,  and  saw  the  gold  sunshine  round 
your  head."' 

She  smiled  an  almost  wild  smile  as  she  looked  up  at  him.  The 
moon  was  up  by  this  time,  glittering  keen  in  the  frosty  sky.  He 
could  see,  for  the  first  time  now  clearly,  her  sweet  careworn  face. 

"Do  you  know  what  day  it  is?"  she  continued.  "It  is  the  29th 
of  December — it  is  your  birthday !  But  last  year  we  did  not  drink 
it — no,  no.  My  Lord  was  cold,  and  my  Harry  was  likely  to  die: 
and  my  brain  was  in  a  fever;  and  we  had  no  wine.  But  now — now 
you  are  come  again,  bringing  your  sheaves  with  you,  my  dear." 
She  burst  into  a  wild  flood  of  weeping  as  she  spoke ;  she  laughed 
and  sobbed  on  the  young  man's  heart,  crying  out  wildly,  ''bringing 
your  sheaves  with  you — your  sheaves  with  you!" 

As  he  had  sometimes  felt,  gazing  up  from  the  deck  at  midnight 
into  the  boundless  starlit  depths  overhead,  in  a  rapture  of  devout 
wonder  at  that  endless  brightness  and  beautj' — in  some  such  a  way 
now,  the  depth  cf  this  pure  devotion  (which  was,  for  the  first  time, 
revealed  to  him)  quite  smote  upon  him,  and  filled  his  heart  watli 
thanksgiving.  Gracious  God,  who  was  he,  weak  and  friendless 
creature,  that  such  a  love  should  be  poured  out  upon  him?  Not  in 
vain — not  in  vain  has  he  lived — hard  and  thankless  should  he  be  to 
think  so — that  has  such  a  treasure  given  him.  What  is  ambition 
compared  to  that,  but  selfish  vanity?  To  be  rich,  to  be  famous? 
What  do  these  profit  a  year  hence,  when  otiier  names  sound  louder 
than  yours,  when  you  lie  hidden  away  under  the  ground,  along 
with  idle  titles  engraven  on  your  coffin?  But  only  true  love  lives 
after  you — follovs-s  your  memory  with  secret  blessing — or  precedes 
you,  and  intercedes  for  you.  Non  or.inis  inoriar — if  dying,  I  yet 
live  in  a  tender  heart  or  two;  nor  am  lost  and  hopeless  living,  if  a 
sainted  departed  soul  still  loves  and  prays  for  me. 

"If — if  'tis  so,  dear  lady,"  Mr.  Esmond  said,  "why  should  I  ever 
leave  you?  If  God  hath  given  me  this  great  boon — and  near  or  far 
from  me,  as  I  know  now-,  the  heart  of  my  dearest  mistress  follows 


264  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

me,  let  me  liave  that  blessing  near  me,  nor  ever  part  with  it  till 
death  separate  us.  Come  away — letive  this  Em'ope,  this  place 
which  has  so  many  sad  recollections  for  j'ou.  Begin  a  new  life  in 
a  new  world.  My  good  Lord  often  talked  of  visiting  that  land  in 
Virginia  which  King  Charles  gave  us — grive  his  ancestor.  Frank 
will  give  us  that.  No  man  there  will  ask  if  there  is  a  blot  on  my 
name,  or  inquire  in  the  woods  what  my  title  is." 

"And  my  children — and  my  duty — and  my  good  father,  Henry?'' 
she  broke  out.  "He  has  none  but  me  now!  for  soon  my  sister  will 
leave  him,  and  the  old  man  will  be  alone.  He  has  conformed  since 
the  new  Queen's  reign;  and  here  in  Winchester,  where  they  love 
him,  they  have  found  a  church  for  him.  When  the  children  leave 
me,  I  will  stay  with  him.  I  cannot  follow  them  into  the  great 
world,  where  their  way  lies — it  scares  me.  They  will  come  and 
visit  me;  and  you  will,  sometimes,  Henry — yes,  sometimes,  as  now, 
in  the  Holy  Advent  season,  when  I  have  seen  and  blessed  you  once 
more." 

"I  would  leave  all  to  follow  you,"  said  Mr.  Esmond;  "and  can 
you  not  be  as  generous  for  me,  dear  lady?" 

"Hush,  boy !"  she  said,  and  it  was  with  a  mother's  sweet  plaintive 
tone  and  look  that  she  spoke.  "The  w^orld  is  beginning  for  you. 
For  me  I  have  been  so  w^eak  and  sinful  that  I  must  leave  it,  and 
pray  out  an  expiation,  dear  Henry.  Had  we  houses  of  religion  as 
there  were  once,  and  many  divines  of  our  Church  would  have 
them  again,  I  often  think  I  would  retire  to  one  and  pass  my  life  in 
penance.  But  I  would  love  you  still — yes,  there  is  no  sin  in  such  a 
love  as  mine  now ;  and  my  dear  lord  in  heaven  may  see  my  heart ; 
and  knows  the  tears  that  have  washed  my  sin  away — and  now — 
now  my  duty  is  here,  by  my  children  whilst  they  need  me,  and  by 
my  poor  old  father,  and " 

"And  not  by  me?"  Henry  said. 

"Hush!"  she  said  again,  and  raised  her  hand  up  to  his  lip.  "I 
have  been  your  nurse.  You  could  not  see  me,  Harry,  when  jou 
were  in  the  smallpox,  and  I  came  and  sat  by  you.  Ah !  I  prayed 
that  I  might  die,  but  it  would  have  been  in  sin,  Henry,     Oh,  it  is 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  265 

horrid  to  look  back  to  that  time!  It  is  over  now  and  past,  and  it 
has  been  forgiven  me.  When  you  need  nie  again,  I  will  come  ever 
so  far.  When  your  heart  is  wounded,  then  come  to  me,  my  dear. 
Be  silent !  let  me  say  all.  You  never  loved  me,  dear  Henry — no, 
you  do  not  now,  and  I  thank  Heaven  for  it.  I  used  to  watch  you, 
and  knew  by  a  thousand  signs  that  it  was  so.  Do  you  remember 
how  glad  you  were  to  go  away  to  college?  'Twas  I  sent  j^ou.  I 
told  my  papa  that,  and  Mr,  Atterbury  too,  when  I  spoke  to  him  in 
London.  And  they  both  gave  me  absolution — both — and  they  are 
godly  men,  having  authority  to  bind  and  to  loose.  And  they  for- 
gave me,  as  my  dear  lord  forgave  me  before  he  went  to  heaven." 

"I  think  the  angels  are  not  all  in  heaven,"  Mr.  Esmond  said. 
And  as  a  brother  folds  a  sister  to  his  heart ;  and  as  a  mother  cleaves 
to  her  son's  breast — so  for  a  few  moments  Esmond's  beloved 
mistress  came  to  him  and  blessed  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

I  AM   MADE  WELCOME  AT   WALCOTE 

''^^As  they  came  uj)  to  the  house  at  Walcote,  the  windows  from 
within  were  lighted  up  Avith  friendly  welcome ;  the  supper-table 
was  spread  in  the  oak-parlour;  it  seemed  as  if  forgi%'eness  and  love 
were  awaiting  the  returning  prodigal.  Two  or  three  familiar  faces 
of  domestics  were  on  the  look-ovit  at  the  porch — the  old  house- 
keeper was  there,  and  young  Lockwood  from  Castlewood  in  my 
Lord's  livery  of  tawny  and  blue.  His  dear  mistress  pressed  his 
arm  as  they  passed  into  the  hall.  Her  eyes  beamed  out  on  him 
with  affection  indescribable.  "Welcome!"  was  all  she  said,  as  she 
looked  up,  putting  back  her  fair  curls  and  black  hood.  A  sweet 
rosy  smile  blushed  on  her  face ;  Harry  thought  he  had  never  seen 
her  look  so  charming.  Her  face  was  lighted  with  a  joy  that  was 
brighter  than  beauty — she  took  a  hand  of  her  son  who  was  in  the 
hall  waiting  his  mother — she  did  not  quit  Esmond's  arm. 

"Welcome,  Harry !"  my  young  lord  echoed  after  her.  "Here, 
we  are  all  come  to  say  so.  Here's  old  Pincot,  hasn't  she  grown 
handsome?"  and  Pincot,  who  was  older  and  no  handsomer  than 
usual,  made  a  curtsey  to  the  Captain,  as  she  called  Esmond,  and 
told  my  Lord  to  "Have  done,  now!" 

"And  here's  Jack  Lockwood.  He'll  make  a  famous  grenadier, 
Jack;  and  so  shall  I;  we'll  both  'list  under  you,  cousin.  As  soon  as 
I  am  seventeen,  I  go  to  the  array — every  gentleman  goes  to  the 
army.  Look  who  comes  here! — ho,  ho!''  he  bur^t  into  a  laugh. 
"  'Tis  IMistress  Trix,  with  a  new  riband;  I  knew  she  would  put  on 
one  as  soon  as  she  heard  a  captain  was  coming  to  supper.'' 

This  laughing  colloquy  took  place  in  the  hall  of  Walcote  House: 
ill  the  midst  of  which  is  a  staircase  that  leads  from  an  open  gallery, 
where  are  the  doors  of  the  sleeping  chambers :  and  from  one  of 

266 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  267 

these,  a  wax  candle  in  her  hand,  and  illuminating  her,  came  Mis- 
tress Beatrix — the  light  falling  indeed  upon  the  scarlet  riband 
which  she  wore,  and  upon  the  most  brilliant  white  neck  in  the 
world. 

Esmond  had  left  a  child  and  found  a  woman,  grown  beyond  the 
common  height;  and  arrived  at  such  a  dazzling  completeness  ot 
beauty,  that  his  eyes  might  well  show  surpiise  and  deligiit  at 
beholding  her.  In  hers  there  was  a  brightness  so  lustrous  and 
melting,  that  I  have  seen  a  whole  assembly  follow  her  j.s  if  by  an 
attraction  irresistible:  and  that  night  the  great  Duke  vras  at  the 
playhouse  after  Ramillies,  every  soul  turned  and  looked  (she 
chanced  to  enter  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  theatre  at  the  same 
moment)  at  her,  and  not  at  hini.j  She  was  a  brown  beauty :  that  is, 
her  eyes,  hair,  and  eyebrows  and  eyelashes  were  dark:  her  hair 
curling  with  rich  undulations,  and  waving  over  her  shoulders;  but 
her  complexion  was  as  dazzling  white  as  snow  in  sunshine:  except 
her  cheeks  which  were  a  bright  red,  and  her  lips,  which  were  of  a 
still  deeper  crimson.  Her  mouth  and  chin,  they  said,  were  too 
large  and  full,  and  so  they  might  be  for  a  goddess  in  marble,  but 
not  for  a  woman  whose  eyes  were  fire,  whose  look  was  love,  whose 
voice  was  the  sweetest  low  song,  whose  shape  was  perfect  symme- 
try, health,  decision,  activity,  whose  foot  as  it  planted  itself  on  the 
ground  was  firm  but  flexible,  and  whose  motion,  whether  rapid  or 
slow,  was  always  perfect  grace — agile  as  a  nymph,  lofty  as  a  queen 
— now  melting,  now  imperious,  now  sarcastic — there  was  no  single 
movement  of  hers  but  was  beautiful.)  As  he  thinks  of  her,  he  who 
writes  feels  young  again,  and  remembers  a  i)aragon. 

So  she  came  holding  her  dress  with  one  fair  rounded  arm,  and 
her  taper  before  her,  tripping  down  the  stair  to  greet  Esmond. 

"She  hath  put  on  her  scarlet  stockings  and  white  shoes,"  says 
my  Lord,  still  laughing.  "O  my  fine  mistress!  is  this  the  way  j^ou 
set  your  cap  at  the  Captain'r"  She  approached,  shining  smiles 
upon  Esmond,  who  could  look  at  nothing  but  her  eyes.  She 
advanced  holding  forward  her  head,  as  if  she  would  have  him  kiss 
her  as  he  used  to  do  when  she  was  a  child. 


268  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

"Stop,"  she  said,  "I  am  grown  too  big!  Welcome,  Cousin 
Harry!"  and  she  made  him  an  arch  curtsey,  sweeping  down  to  the 
ground  ahnost,  with  the  most  gracious  bend,  looking  up  the  while 
with  the  brightest  eyes  and  sweetest  smile.  Love  seemed  to  radiate 
from  her.  Harry  eyed  her  with  such  a  rapture  as  the  first  lover  is 
described  as  having  by  Milton. 

"N'est-ce  pas?"  says  my  Lady,  in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  still  hang- 
ing on  his  arm. 

Esmond  turned  round  with  a  start  and  a  blush,  as  he  met  his 
mistress's  clear  eyes.  He  had  forgotten  her,  rapt  in  admiration  of 
the  filia  pulerior. 

''Right  foot  forward,  toe  turned  out,  so:  now  drop  the  curtsey, 
and  show  the  red  stockings,  Trix.  They've  silver  clocks,  Harry. 
The  Dowager  sent  'em.     She  went  to  put  'em  on,"  cries  my  Lord. 

"Hush,  you  stupid  child!"  says  miss,  smothering  her  brother 
with  kisses ;  and  then  she  must  come  and  kiss  her  mamma,  looking 
all  the  while  at  Harry,  over  his  mistress's  shoulder.  And  if  she  did 
not  kiss  him,  she  gave  him  both  her  hands,  and  then  took  one  of 
his  in  both  hands,  and  said,  "O  Harry,  we're  so,  so  glad  you're 
come!" 

"There  are  woodcocks  for  supper,"  says  my  Lord.  "Huzzay! 
It  was  such  a  hungry  sermon." 

"And  it  is  the  29th  of  December;  and  our  Harry  has  come 
home." 

"Huzzay,  old  Pincot!"  again  says  my  Lord;  and  my  dear  lady's 
lips  looked  as  if  they  were  ta-embling  with  a  prayer.  She  would 
have  Harry  lead  in  Beatrix  to  the  supper-room,  going  herself  with 
my  young  Lord  Viscount;  and  to  this  party  came  Tom  Tusher 
directly,  whom  four  at  least  out  of  the  company  of  five  wished 
away.  Away  he  went,  however,  as  soon  as  the  sweetmeats  were 
put  down,  and  then,  by  the  great  crackling  fire,  his  mistress,  or 
Beatrix  with  her  blushing  graces,  filling  his  glass  for  him,  Harry 
told  the  story  of  his  campaign,  and  passed  the  most  delightful 
night  his  life  had  ever  known.  The  sun  was  up  long  ere  he  wa^;. 
so  deep,  sweet,   and  refreshing  was  his  slumber.     He  woke  as  if 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  269 

angels  had  been  watching  at  his  bed  all  night.  I  dare  say  one  that 
was  as  pure  and  loving  as  an  angel  had  blessed  his  sleep  with  her 
prayers. 

Next  morning  the  chaplain  read  prayers  to  the  little  household 
at  Walcote,  as  the  custom  was ;  Esmond  thought  Mistress  Beatrix 
did  not  listen  toTusher's  exhortation  much:  her  eyes  were  wander- 
ing everywhere  during  the  service,  at  least  whenever  he  looked  up 
he  met  them.  Perhaps  he  also  was  not  very  attentive  to  his  Rever- 
ence the  Chaplain.  '"This  might  have  been  my  life,"  he  was  think- 
ing; "this  might  have  been  my  duty  from  now  till  old  age.  Well, 
were  it  not  a  pleasant  one  to  be  with  these  dear  friends  and  part 
from  'em  no  more?  Until — until  the  destined  lover  comes  and 
takes  away  pretty  Beatrix" — and  the  best  part  of  Tom  Tusher's 
exposition,  which  may  have  been  very  learned  and  eloquent,  was 
quite  lost  to  poor  Harry  by  this  vision  of  the  destined  lover,  who 
put  the  preacher  out. 

All  the  while  of  the  prayers,  Beatrix  knelt  a  little  way  before 
Harry  Esmond.  The  red  stockings  were  changed  for  a  pair  of 
grey,  and  black  shoes,  in  which  her  feet  looked  to  the  full  as  pretty. 
All  the  roses  of  spring  could  not  vie  with  the  brightness  of  her 
complexion;  Esmond  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  like  the 
sunny  lustre  of  her  eyes.  My  Lady  Viscountess  looked  fatigued, 
as  if  with  watching,  and  her  face  was  pale. 

Miss  Beatrix  remarked  these  signs  of  indisposition  in  her  mother 
and  deplored  them.  "I  am  an  old  woman,"  says  my  Lady,  with  a 
kind  smile;  "I  cannot  hope  to  look  as  young  as  you  do,  my  dear." 

"She'll  never  look  as  good  as  you  do  if  she  lives  till  she's  a  hun- 
dred," says  my  Lord,  taking  his  mother  by  the  waist,  and  kissing 
her  hand. 

"Do  I  look  very  wicked,  cousin?"  saj^s  Beatrix,  turning  full 
round  on  Esmond,  with  her  pretty  face  so  close  under  his  chin, 
that  the  soft  perfumed  hair  touched  it.  She  laid  her  finger-tips  on 
his  sleeve  as  she  spoke ;  and  he  put  his  other  hand  over  hers. 

"I'm  like  your  looking-glass,"  says  he,  "and  that  can't  flatter 
you." 


270  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

"He  means  that  you  are  always  looking  at  him,  my  dear,"  says 
her  mother  archly.  Beatrix  ran  away  from  Esmond  at  this,  and 
flew  to  her  mamma,  whom  she  kissed,  stopping  my  Lady's  mouth 
with  her  pretty  hand. 

"And  Harry  is  very  good  to  look  at,"  says  my  Lady,  with  her 
fond  eyes  regarding  the  young  man. 

"If  'tis  good  to  see  a  happy  face,"  says  he,  "you  see  that."  My 
Lady  said,  "Amen,"  with  a  sigh;  and  Harry  thought  the  memory 
of  her  dear  lord  rose  up  and  rebuked  her  back  again  into 
sadness;  for  her  face  lost  the  smile,  and  resumed  its  look  of 
melancholy. 

"Why,  Harry,  how  fine  we  look  in  our  scarlet  and  silver,  and 
our  black  periwig!"  cries  my  Lord.  "JMother,  I  am  tired  of  my 
own  hair.  When  shall  I  have  a  peruke?  Where  did  you  get  your 
steenkirk,  Harry?" 

"It's  some  of  my  Lady  Dowager's  lace,"  says  Harry;  "she  gave 
me  this  and  a  number  of  other  fine  things." 

"My  Lady  Dowager  isn't  such  a  bad  woman,*'  my  Lord  con- 
tinued. 

"She's  not  so — so  red  as  she's  j^ainted,"  saj's  Miss  Beatrix. 

Her  brother  broke  into  a  laugh.  "I'll  tell  her  you  said  so;  by 
the  Lord,  Trix,  I  will!"  he  cries  out. 

"She'll  know  that  you  hadn't  the  wit  to  say  it,  my  Lord,"  says 
Miss  Beatrix. 

"We  won't  quarrel  the  first  day  Harry's  here,  will  we,  mother?" 
said  the  young  lord.  "We'll  see  if  we  can  get  on  to  the  new  year 
without  a  fight.  Have  some  of  this  Christmas  pie.  And  here 
comes  the  tankard;  no,  it's  Pincot  with  the  tea." 

"Will  the  Captain  choose  a  dish?"  asked  Mistress  Beatrix. 

"I  sa5^  Harry,"  my  Lord  goes  on,  "I'll  show  thee  my  horses 
after  breakfast;  and  we'll  go  a  bird-netting  to-night,  and  on  Mon- 
day there's  a  cock-match  at  Winchester — do  you  love  cock-fighting, 
Harry? — between  the  gentlemen  of  Sussex  and  the  gentlemen  of 
Hampshire,  at  ten  pound  the  battle,  and  fifty  pound  the  odd  battle 
to  siiow  one-and-twenty  cocks." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  271 

"And  what  will  you  do,  Beatrix,  to  amuse  our  kinsman?"  asks 
my  Lady. 

"I'll  listen  to  him,"  says  Beatrix.  "I  am  sure  he  has  a  hundred 
things  to  tell  us.  And  I'm  jealous  already  of  the  Spanish  ladies. 
Was  that  a  beautiful  nun  at  Cadiz  that  you  rescued  from  the  sol- 
diers? Your  man  talked  of  it  last  night  in  the  kitchen,  and  Mrs. 
Betty  told  me  this  morning  as  she  combed  my  hair.  And  he  says 
you  must  be  in  love,  for  you  sat  on  deck  all  night,  and  scribbled 
verses  all  day  in  your  table-book."  Harry  thought  if  he  had 
wanted  a  subject  for  verses  yesterday,  to-day  he  had  found  one: 
and  not  all  the  Lindamiras  and  Ardelias  of  the  poets  were  half  so 
beautiful  as  this  young  creature ;  but  he  did  not  say  so,  though 
some  one  did  for  him. 

This  was  his  dear  lady,  who,  after  the  meal  was  over,  and  tlie 
young  people  were  gone,  began  talking  of  her  children  with  Mr. 
Esmond,  and  of  the  characters  of  one  and  the  other,  and  of  her 
hopes  and  fears  for  both  of  them.  "  'Tis  not  while  they  are  at 
home,"  she  said,  "and  in  their  mother's  nest,  I  fear  for  them — "tis 
when  they  are  gone  into  the  world,  whither  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
follow  them.  Beatrix  will  begin  her  service  next  year.  You  may 
have  heard  a  rumour  about — about  my  Lord  Blandford.  They 
were  both  children;  and  it  is  but  idle  talk.  I  know  my  kinswoman 
would  never  let  him  make  such  a  poor  marriage  as  our  Beatrix 
would  be.  There's  scarce  a  princess  in  Europe  that  she  thinks  is 
good  enough  for  him  or  for  her  ambition." 

"There's  not  a  princess  in  Europe  to  compare  with  her,"  says 
Esmond. 

"In  beauty?  No,  perhaps  not,"  answered  my  Lady.  "She  is 
most  beautiful,  isn't  she?  'Tis  not  a  mother's  partiality  that 
deceives  me.  I  marked  you  yesterday  when  she  came  down  tlie 
stair:  and  read  it  in  your  face.  We  look  when  you  don't  fancy  us 
looking,  and  see  better  than  you  think,  dear  Harry:  and  just  now, 
when  they  sjDoke  about  your  poems — j^ou  writ  pretty  lines  when 
you  were  but  a  boy — you  thought  Beatrix  was  a  pretty  subject 
for  verse,  did  not  you,  Harry?"     (The  gentleman  could  only  blush 


272  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

for  a  reply.)  "And  so  she  is — nor  are  you  the  first  her  pretty  face 
lias  captivated.  'Tis  quickly  done.  Such  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  as 
hers  learn  their  power  very  soon,  and  use  it  very  early."  And, 
looking  at  him  keenly  with  hers,  the  fair  widow  left  him. 

And  so  it  is — a  pair  of  bright  eyes  with  a  dozen  glances  suffice 
to  subdue  a  man ;  to  enslave  him,  and  inflame  him ;  to  make  him 
even  forget;  they  dazzle  him  so  that  the  past  becomes  straightway 
dim  to  him;  and  he  so  prizes  them  that  he  would  give  all  his  life  to 
possess  'em.  What  is  the  fond  love  of  dearest  friends  compared  to 
this  treasure?  Is  memory  as  strong  as  expectancy?  fruition,  as 
hunger?  gratitude,  as  desire?  I  have  looked  at  royal  diamonds  in 
the  jewel-rooms  in  Europe,  and  thought  how  wars  have  been  made 
about  'em;  Mogul  sovereigns  deposed  and  strangled  for  them,  or 
ransomed  with  them;  millions  expended  to  buy  them;  and  daring 
lives  lost  in  digging  out  the  little  shining  toys  that  I  value  no  more 
than  the  button  in  my  hat.  And  so  there  are  other  glittering 
baubles  (of  rare  water  too)  for  which  men  have  been  set  to  kill  and 
quarrel  ever  since  mankind  began ;  and  which  last  but  for  a  score 
of  years,  when  their  sparkle  is  over.  Where  are  those  jewels  now 
that  beamed  under  Cleopatra's  forehead,  or  shone  in  the  sockets 
of  Helen? 

The  second  day  after  Esmond's  coming  to  Walcote,  Tom  Tusher 
had  leave  to  take  a  holiday, and  went  off  in  his  very  best  gown  and 
bands  to  court  the  young  woman  whom  his  Reverence  desired  to 
marry,  and  who  was  not  a  viscount's  widow,  as  it  turned  out,  but  a 
brewer's  relict  at  Southampton,  with  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds 
to  her  fortune :  for  honest  Tom's  heart  was  under  such  excellent 
control,  that  Venus  herself  without  a  portion  would  never  have 
caused  it  to  flutter.  So  he  rode  away  on  his  heavy-paced  gelding  to 
pursue  his  jogtrot  loves,  leaving  Esmond  to  the  society  of  his  dear 
mistress  and  her  daughter,  and  with  his  young  lord  for  a  com- 
panion, who  was  charmed,  not  only  to  see  an  old  friend,  but  to  have 
the  tutor  and  his  Latin  books  put  out  of  the  way. 

The  boy  talked  of  things  and  people,  and  not  a  little  about  him- 
self, in  his  frank  artless  way.     *Twas  easv  to  see  that  he  and  his 


Tlii^  iiiiSTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  273 

sister  bad  the  better  of  tbeir  fond  motber,  for  the  first  place  in 
whose  affections,  though  they  fought  constantly,  and  though  the 
kind  lad}-  persisted  that  she  loved  both  equally,  'twas  not  difficult 
to  understand  that  Frank  was  his  mother's  darling  and  favourite. 
He  ruled  the  whole  household  (always  excepting  rebellious^eatrix) 
not  less  now  than  when  he  was  a  child  marshalling  the  village  boys 
in  playing  at  soldiers,  and  caning  them  lustily  too,  like  the  stur- 
diest corporal.  As  for  Tom  Tusher,  his  Reverence  treated  the 
young  lord  w^itli  that  politeness  and  deference  which  he  always 
sliowed  for  a  great  man,  whatever  his  age  or  his  stature  was. 
Indeed,  with  respect  to  this  young  one,  it  was  impossible  not  to 
love  him,  so  frank  and  winning  were  his  manners,  his  beauty,  his 
gaiety,  the  ring  of  his  laughter,  and  the  delightful  tone  of  his 
voice  Wherever  he  went,  he  charmed  and  domineered.  I  think 
his  old  grandfather  the  Dean,  and  the  grim  old  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Piucot,  were  as  much  his  slaves  as  his  mother  was;  and  as  for 
Esmond,  he  found  himself  presently  submitting  to  a  certain  fasci- 
nation the  boy  had,  and  slaving  it  like  the  rest  of  the  family.  The 
pleasure  which  he  had  in  Frank's  mere  company  and  converse 
exceeded  that  which  he  ever  enjoyed  in  the  society  of  any  other 
man,  however  delightful  in  talk,  or  famous  f'^r  wit.  His  presence 
brought  sunshine  into  a  room,  his  laugh,  his  prattle,  his  noble 
beauty  and  brightness  of  look  cheered  and  charmed  indescribably. 
At  the  least  tale  of  sorrow,  his  hands  were  in  his  purse,  and  he  was 
eager  with  sj-mpathy  and  bounty.  The  way  in  which  women  loved 
and  petted  him,  wlien,  a  year  or  two  afterwards,  he  came  upon  the 
world,  yet  a  mere  boy,  and  the  follies  which  they  did  for  him  (as 
indeed  he  for  tliem),  recalled  the  career  of  Rochester,  and  outdid 
the  successes  of  Grammont.  His  very  creditors  loved  him;  and  the 
hardest  usurers,  and  some  of  the  rigid  prudes  of  the  other  sex  too, 
could  deny  him  nothing.  He  was  no  more  witty  than  another 
man,  but  what  he  said,  he  said  and  looked  as  no  man  else  could  say 
or  look  it.  I  have  seen  the  women  at  the  comedy  at  Bruxelles 
crowd  round  him  in  the  lobby :  and  as  he  sat  on  the  stage  more 
people  looked  at  him  than  at  the  actors,  and  watched  him ;  and  I 


374  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

remember  at  Ramillies,  when  he  was  hit  and  fell,  a  great  big  red- 
haired  Scotch  sergeant  flung  his  halbert  down,  burst  out  a-crying 
like  a  woman,  seizing  him  up  as  if  he  had  been  an  infant,  and  car- 
rying him  out  of  the  fire.  This  brother  and  sister  were  the  most 
beautiful  couple  ever  seen;  though  after  he  winged  away  from  the 
maternal  nest  this  pair  were  seldom  together. 

Sitting  at  dinner  two  days  after  Esmond's  arrival  (it  was  the 
last  day  of  the  year),  and  so  happy  a  one  to  Harry  Esmond,  that  to 
enjoy  it  was  quite  worth  all  the  previous  pain  which  he  had 
endured  and  forgot,  my  young  lord,  filling  a  bumper,  and  bidding 
Harry  take  another,  drank  to  his  sister,  saluting  her  under  the 
title  of  "Marchioness." 

* 'Marchioness!"  says  Harry,  not  without  a  pang  of  wonder,  for 
he  was  curious  and  jealous  already. 

"Nonsense,  my  Lord,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
My  Lady  Viscountess  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  Esmond  and  cast 
her  eyes  down. 

"The  Marchioness  of  Blandford,"  says  Frank.  "Don't  you 
know— hath  not  Rouge  Dragon  told  you?"  (My  Lord  used  to  call 
the  Dowager  of  Chelsey  by  this  and  other  names.)  "Blandford  has 
a  lock  of  her  hair:  the  Duchess  found  him  on  his  knees  to  Mistress 
Trix,  and  boxed  his  ears,  and  said  Dr.  Hare  should  whip  him." 

"I  wish  Mr.  Tusher  would  whip  you  too,"  sa5's  Beatrix. 

My  Lady  only  said,  "I  hope  you  will  tell  none  of  these  silly 
stories  elsewhere  than  at  home,  Francis." 

"  'Tis  true,  on  my  word,"  continues  Frank.  "Look  at  Harry 
scowling,  mother,  and  see  how  Beatrix  blushes  as  red  as  the  silver- 
clocked  stockmgs. '' 

"I  think  we  had  best  leave  the  gentlemen  to  their  wine  and 
their  talk,"  says  Mrs.  Beatrix,  rising  up  with  the  air  of  a  young 
queen,  tossing  her  rustling  flowing  drpiperies  about  her,  and  quit- 
ting the  room,  followed  by  her  mother. 

Lady  Castlewood  again  looked  at  Esmond,  as  she  stooped  down 
and  kissed  Frank.  "Do  not  tell  those  silly  stories,  child,"  she  said: 
"do  not  drink  much  wine,  sir;  Harry  never  loved  to  drink  wine." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  275 

And  she  went  away,  too,  in  her  black  robes,  looking  back  on  the 
young  man  with  her  fair,  fond  face. 

"Egad!  it's  true,"  says  Frank,  sipping  his  wine  with  the  air  of 
a  lord.  "What  think  you  of  this  Lisbon  — real  Collares?  'Tis 
better  than  your  heady  port :  we  got  it  out  of  one  of  the  Spanish 
ships  that  came  from  Vigo  last  year:  my  mother  bought  it  at  South- 
ampton, as  the  ship  was  lying  there — the  Rose,  Captain  Hawkins." 

"Why,  I  came  home  in  that  ship,"  says  Harrj\ 

"And  it  brought  home  a  good  fellow  and  good  wine,"  says  my 
Lord.  "I  say,  Harry,  I  wish  thou  hadst  not  that  cursed  bar 
sinister." 

"And  why  not  the  bar  sinister?"  asks  the  other. 

"Suppose  I  go  to  the  army  and  am  killed — every  gentleman  goes 
to  the  army — who  is  to  take  care  of  the  women?  Trix  will  never 
stop  at  home;  mother's  in  love  with  you, — yes,  I  think  mother's  in 
love  with  you.  She  was  always  praising  you,  and  always  talking 
about  you;  and  when  she  went  to  Southampton,  to  see  the  ship,  I 
found  her  out.  But  you  see  it  is  impossible :  we  are  of  the  oldest 
blood  in  England;  we  came  in  with  the  Conqueror;  we  were  only 
baronets, — but  what  then?  we  were  forced  into  that.  James  the 
First  forced  our  great-grandfather.  We  are  above  titles;  we  old 
English  gentry  don't  want  'em;  the  Queen  can  make  a  duke  any 
day.  Look  at  Blandford's  father,  Duke  Churchill,  and  Duchess 
Jennings,  what  were  they,  Harry?  Damn  it,  sir,  what  are  they,  to 
turn  up  their  noses  at  us?  Where  were  they,  when  our  ancestor 
rode  with  King  Henry  at  Agincourt,  and  filled  up  the  French 
King's  cup  after  Poictiers?  'Fore.  George,  sir,  why  shouldn't 
Blandford  marry  Beatrix?  By  G— !  he  shall  marry  Beatrix,  or 
tell  me  tlie  reason  why.  We'll  marry  with  the  best  blood  of 
England,  and  none  but  the  best  blood  of  England.  You  are  an 
Esmond,  and  you  can't  help  your  birth,  my  boy.  Let's  have 
another  bottle.  What!  no  more?  I've  drunk  three  parts  of  this 
myself.  I  had  many  a  night  with  my  father ;  you  stood  to  him  like 
a  man,  Harry.  Y^ou  backed  your  blood ;  you  can't  help  your  mis- 
fortune, you  know, — no  man  can  help  that." 


276  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

The  elder  said  he  would  go  hi  to  his  mistress's  tea-table.  The 
young  lad,  with  a  heightened  colour  and  voice,  began  singing  a 
snatch  of  a  song,  and  marched  out  of  the  room.  Esmond  heard 
him  presently  calling  his  dogs  about  him,  and  cheering  and  talking 
to  them ;  and  by  a  hundred  of  his  looks  and  gestures,  tricks  of  voice 
and  gait,  was  reminded  of  the  dead  lord,  Frank's  father. 

And  so,  the  Sylvester  night  passed  away;  the  family  parted  long 
before  midnight,  Lady  Castle  wood  remembering,  no  doubt,  former 
New-Year's  Eves,  when  healths  were  drunk,  and  laughter  went 
round  in  the  company  of  him,  to  whom  years,  past,  and  present, 
and  future,  were  to  be  as  one;  and  so  cared  not  to  sit  with  her  chil- 
dren and  hear  the  Cathedral  bells  ringing  the  birth  of  the  year 
1703.  Esmond  heard  the  chimes  as  he  sat  in  his  own  chamber, 
ruminating  by  the  blazing  fire  there,  and  listened  to  the  last  notes 
of  them,  looking  out  from  his  window  towards  the  city,  and  the 
great  grey  towers  of  the  Cathedral  lying  under  the  frosty  sky,  with 
the  keen  stars  shining  above. 

The  sight  of  these  brilliant  orbs  no  doubt  made  him  think  of 
other  luminaries.  "And  so  her  eyes  have  already  done  execution," 
thought  Esmond — "on  whom? — who  can  tell  me?"  Luckily  his 
kinsman  was  by,  and  Esmond  knew  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in 
finding  out  Mistress  Beatrix's  history  from  the  simple  talk  of  the 
boy. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


FAMILY  TALK 


What  Harry  admired  and  submitted  to  in  the  pretty  lad  his 
kinsman  was  (for  why  should  he  resist  it?)  the  calmness  of  patron- 
age which  my  j'^oung  lord  assumed,  as  if  to  command  was  his 
undoubted  right,  and  all  the  world  (below  his  degree)  ought  to  bow 
down  to  Viscount  Castlewood. 

"I  know  my  place,  Harry,'"  he  said.  "I'm  not  proud — the  boys 
at  Winchester  College  say  I'm  proud:  but  I'm  not  proud.  lam 
simply  Francis  James,  Viscount  Castlewood  in  the  peerage  of  Ire- 
land. I  might  have  been  (do  you  know  that?)  Francis  James, 
Marquis  and  Earl  of  Esmond  in  that  of  England.  The  late  lord 
refused  tlie  title  which  was  offered  to  him  by  my  godfather,  his 
late  Majesty.  You  should  know  that — you  are  of  our  family,  you 
know — you  cannot  help  your  bar  sinister,  Harry  my  dear  fellow ; 
and  you  belong  to  one  of  the  best  families  in  England,  in  spite  of 
that;  and  you  stood  by  my  father,  and  by  G — !  I'll  stand  by  you. 
You  shall  never  want  a  friend,  Harry,  while  Francis  James, 
Viscount  Castlewood,  has  a  shilling.  It's  now  1703 — I  shall  come 
of  age  in  1709.  I  shall  go  back  to  Castlewood;  I  shall  live  at  Castle- 
wood; I  shall  build  up  the  house.  My  property  will  be  pretty  well 
restored  b}'  then.  The  late  viscount  mismanaged  my  property, 
and  left  it  in  a  very  bad  state.  My  mother  is  living  close,  as  you 
see,  and  keeps  me  in  a  way  hardly  befitting  a  peer  of  these  realms; 
for  I  have  but  a  pair  of  horses,  a  governor,  and  a  man  that  is  valet 
and  groom.  But  when  I  am  of  age,  these  things  will  be  set  right, 
Harry.  Our  house  will  be  as  it  should  be.  You  will  always  come 
to  Castlewood,  won't  you?    You  shall  always  have  your  two  rooms 

in  the  court  kept  for  you;  and  if  anybody  slights  you,  d them! 

277 


278  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

let  thein  have  a  care  of  me.  I  shall  marry  early — Trix  will  be  a 
duchess  by  that  time,  most  likely :  for  a  cannon-bq,ll  may  knock 
over  his  Grace  any  day,  you  know." 

"How?"  says  Harry. 

"Hush,  my  dear!"  says  my  Lord  Viscount.  "You  are  of  the 
familj^ — you  are  faithful  to  us,  by  George,  and  I  tell  you  every- 
thing.    Blandford  will  marry  her — or "  and  here  he  put  his 

little  hand  on  his  sword — "you  understand  the  rest.  Blandford 
knows  which  of  us  two  is  the  best  weapon.  At  small-sword,  or 
back-sword,  or  sword  and  dagger  if  he  likes,  I  can  beat  him.  I 
have  tried  him,  Harry ;  and  begad  he  knows  I  am  a  man  not  to  be 
trifled  with." 

"But  you  do  not  mean,"  says  Harry,  concealing  his  laughter, 
but  not  his  wonder,  "that  you  can  force  my  Lord  Blandford,  the 
son  of  the  first  man  of  this  kingdom,  to  marry  your  sister  at 
sword's  point?" 

"I  mean  to  say  that  we  are  cousins  by  the  mother's  side,  though 
that's  nothing  to  boast  of.  I  mean  to  say  that  an  Esmond  is  as 
good  as  a  Churchill ;  and  when  the  King  comes  back,  the  Marquis 
of  Esmond's  sister  may  be  a  match  for  any  nobleman's  daughter  in 
the  kingdom.  There  are  but  two  marquises  in  all  England,  William 
Herbert,  Marquis  of  Powis,  and  Francis  James,  Marquis  of 
Esmond;  and  hark  you,  Harry, — now  swear  you  will  never  mention 
this.  Give  me  your  honour  as  a  gentleman,  for  you  are  a  gentle- 
man, though  you  are  a " 

"Well,  well?"  says  Harry,  a  little  impatient. 

"Well,  then,  when  after  my  late  Viscount's  misfortune,  my 
mother  went  up  with  us  to  London,  to  ask  for  justice  against  you 
all  (as  for  Mohun,  I'll  have  his  blood,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Fran- 
cis, Viscount  Esmond) — we  went  to  stay  with  our  cousin  my  Lady 
Marlborough,  with  whom  we  had  quarrelled  for  ever  so  long.  But 
when  misfortune  came,  she  stood  by  her  blood; — so  did  the 
Dowager  Viscountess  stand  by  her  blood ; — so  did  you.  Well,  sir, 
whilst  my  mother  was  petitioning  the  late  Prince  of  Orange — 
for  I  will  never  call  him  King — and  while  you  were  in  prison,  we 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  279 

lived  at  my  Lord  Marlborough's  house,  who  was  only  a  little  there, 
being  away  with  the  army  in  Holland.  And  then  ...  I  say,  Harry, 
you  won't  tell,  now?" 

Harry  again  made  a  vow  of  secrecy. 

"Well,  there  used  to  be  all  sorts  of  fun,  you  know;  my  Lady 
Marlborough  was  very  fond  of  us,  and  she  said  I  was  to  be  her 
page;  and  she  got  Trix  to  be  a  maid  of  honcvu-,  and  while  she  was 
up  in  her  room  crying,  we  used  to  be  always  having  fun,  you  know ; 
and  the  Duchess  used  to  kiss  me,  and  so  did  her  daughters,  and 
Blandford  fell  tremendous  in  love  with  Trix,  and  she  liked  him; 
and  one  day  he— he  kissed  her  behind  a  door — lie  did  though, — and 
the  Duchess  caught  him,  and  she  banged  such  a  box  of  the  ear 
both  at  Trix  and  Blandford— you  should  have  seen  it !  And  then 
she  said  that  we  must  leave  directly,  and  abused  my  mamma  who 
was  cognisant  of  the  business;  but  she  wasn't— never  thinking 
about  anything  but  father.  And  so  we  came  down  to  Walcote, 
Blandford  being  locked  up.  and  not  allowed  to  see  Trix.  But  I  got 
at  him,  I  climbed  along  the  gutter,  and  in  through  the  window, 
where  he  was  crying. 

"  'Marquis,'  says  I,  when  he  had  opened  it  and  helped  me  in, 
*you  know  I  wear  a  sword,'  for  I  had  brought  it. 

" 'O  Viscount,' says  he — 'O  my  dearest  Frank!'  and  he  threw 
himself  into  my  arms  and  burst  out  a-crying.  'I  do  love  Mistress 
Beatrix  so,  that  I  shall  die  if  I  don't  have  her. 

"  'My  dear  Blandford,'  says  I,  'you  are  young  to  think  of  mar- 
rying;' for  he  was  but  fifteen,  and  a  young  fellow  of  that  age  can 
scarce  do  so,  you  know. 

"  'But  I'll  wait  twenty  years,  if  she'll  have  me,'  says  he.  'I'll 
never  marry — no,  never,  never,  never  marry  anybody  but  her.  No, 
not  a  princess,  though  they  would  have  me  do  it  ever  so.  If 
Beatrix  will  wait  for  me,  her  Blandford  swears  he  will  be  faithful.' 
And  he  wrote  a  paper  (it  wasn't  spelt  right,  for  he  wrote  'I'm  ready 
to  sine  with  my  Node,'  which,  you  know,  Harry,  isn't  the  way  cf 
spelling  it),  and  A-owing  that  he  would  marry  none  other  but  the 
Honourable  Mistress  Gertrude  Beatrix  Esmond,  only  sister  of  his 


280  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

dearest  friend  Francis  James,  fourth  Viscount  Esmond.  And  so  I 
gave  him  a  locket  of  her  hair." 

"A  locket  of  her  hair?"  cries  Esmond. 

"Yes.  Trix  gave  me  one  after  the  fight  with  the  Duchess  that 
very  day.  I  am  sure  I  didn't  want  it;  and  so  I  gave  it  him,  and 
we  kissed  at  parting,  and  said,  'Good-bye,  brother!'  And  I  got 
back  through  the  gutter;  and  we  set  off  home  that  very  evening. 
And  he  went  to  King's  College,  in  Cambridge,  and  I'm  going  to 
Cambridge  soon ;  and  if  he  doesn't  stand  to  his  promise  (for  he's 
only  wrote  once),— he  knows  I  wear  a  sword,  Harry.  Come  along, 
and  let's  go  see  the  cocking-match  at  Winchester." 

*'.  .  .  But  I  say,"  he  added,  laughing,  after  a  pause,  "I  don't 
think  Trix  will  break  her  heart  about  him.  La  bless  you!  when- 
ever she  sees  a  man,  she  makes  eyes  at  him ;  and  young  Sir  Wilmot 
Crawley  of  Queen's  Crawley,  and  Anthony  Henley  of  Alresford. 
were  at  swords  drawn  about  her,  at  the  Winchester  Assembly,  a 
month  ago." 

That  night  Mr.  Harry's  sleep  was  by  no  means  so  pleasant  or 
sweet  as  it  had  been  on  the  first  two  evenings  after  his  arrival  at 
AValcote.  "So  the  bright  eyes  have  been  alread}^  shining  on 
another,"  thought  he,  "and  tlie  pretty  lips,  or  the  cheeks  at  any 
rate,  have  begun  the  work  wliich  they  were  made  for.  Here's  a 
girl  not  sixteen,  and  one  young  gentleman  is  already  whimpering 
over  a  lock  of  her  hair,  and  two  country  squires  are  ready  to  cut 
each  other's  throats  that  they  may  have  the  honour  of  a  dance 
with  her.  What  a  fool  am  I  to  be  dallying  about  this  passion,  and 
singeing  my  wings  in  this  foolish  flame!  Wings! — why  not  say 
crutches?  Tliere  is  but  eight  years'  difference  between  us,  to  be 
sure ;  but  in  life  I  am  thirty  years  older.  How  could  I  ever  hope  to 
please  such  a  sweet  creature  as  that,  with  my  rough  ways  and 
glum  face?  Say  that  I  have  merit  ever  so  much,  and  won  m3self 
a  name,  could  she  ever  listen  to  me?  She  must  be  my  Lady  Mar- 
chioness, and  I  remain  a  nameless  bastard.  O  my  master,  my 
master!"  (Here  he  fell  to  thinking  with  a  passionate  grief  of  the 
vow  which  he  had  made  to  his  poor  dying  lord.)    "O  my  mistress, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  281 

dearest  and  kindest,  will  you  be  contented  with  the  sacrifice  which 
the  poor  orphan  makes  for  jou,  whom  you  lovej  and  who  so  loves 
you?" 

And  then  came  a  fiercer  i^ang  of  temptation.  "A  word  from 
me,"  Harry  thought,  "a  syllable  of  explanation,  and  all  this  might 
be  changed ;  but  no,  I  swore  it  over  the  dying  bed  of  my  benefac- 
tor. For  the  sake  of  him  and  his;  for  the  sacred  love  and  kindness 
of  old  days ;  I  gave  my  jDromise  to  him,  and  may  kind  Heaven  enable 
me  to  keep  my  vow !" 

The  next  day,  although  Esmond  gave  no  sign  of  what  was  going 
on  in  his  mind,  but  strove  to  be  more  than  ordinarily  gay  and  cheer- 
ful when  he  met  his  friends  at  the  morning  meal,  his  dear  mistress, 
whose  clear  eyes  it  seemed  no  emotion  of  his  could  escape,  per- 
ceived that  something  troubled  him,  for  she  looked  anxiously 
towards  him  more  than  once  during  the  breakfast,  and  when  he 
went  up  to  his  chamber  afterwards  she  presently  followed  him, 
and  knocked  at  his  door. 

As  she  entered,  no  doubt  the  whole  story  was  clear  to  her  at 
once,  for  she  found  our  young  gentleman  packing  his  valise,  pursu- 
ant to  the  resolution  which  he  had  come  to  over-night  of  making  a 
brisk  retreat  out  of  this  temptation. 
I        She  closed  the  door  very  carefully  behind  her,  and  then  leant 
■  against  it,  very  pale,  her  hands  folded  before  her,  looking  at  the 
\  young  man,  who   was  kneeling  over  his  work  of  packing.     "Are 
'  you  going  so  soon?"  she  said. 

He  rose  up  from  his  knees,  blushing,  perhaps,  to  be  so  discov- 
ered, in  the  very  act,  as  it  were,  and  took  one  of  her  fair  little 
hands — it  was  that  wnich  had  her  marriage  ring  on — and  kissed  it. 
"It  is  best  that  it  should  be  so,  dearest  lady,"  he  said. 
"I  knew  you  were  going,  at  breakfast.  I— I  thought  you  might 
stay.  What  has  happened?  Why  can't  you  remain  longer  with  us? 
Wliat  has  Frank  told  you — you  were  talking  together  late  last 
night?" 

"I  had  but  three  days'  leave  from  Chelsey,"  Esmond  said,  as 
gaily  as  he  could.     "My  aunt — she  lets  me  call  her  aunt — is  my 
■ 


282  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

mistress  now !  I  owe  her  my  lieutenancy  and  my  laced  coat.  She 
has  taken  me  into  high  favour;  and  my  new  General  is  to  dine  at 
Chelsey  to-morrow — General  Lumley,  madam — who  has  appointed 
me  his  aide-de-camp,  and  on  whom  I  must  have  the  honour  of  wait- 
ing. See,  here  is  a  letter  from  the  Dowager;  the  post  brought  it 
last  night ;  and  I  would  not  speak  of  it,  for  fear  of  disturbing  our 
last  merry  meeting." 

My  Lady  glanced  at  the  letter,  and  put  it  down  with  a  smile 
that  was  somewhat  contemptuous.  "I  have  no  need  to  read  the 
letter,"  says  she— (indeed,  'twas  as  well  she  did  not;  for  the 
Clielsey  missive,  in  the  poor  Dowager's  usual  French  jargon, 
permitted  him  a  longer  holiday  than  he  said.  "Je  vous  donne," 
quoth  her  Ladyship,  "oui  jour,  pour  vous  fatigay  parfaictement 
de  vos  parens  fatigans") — "I  have  no  need  to  read  the  letter,"  says 
she.     "What  was  it  Frank  told  you  last  night?'' 

'He  told  me  little  I  did  not  know,"  Mr.  Esmond  answered. 
"But  I  have  thought  of  that  little,  and  here's  the  result:  I  have  no 
right  to  the  name  I  bear,  dear  lady ;  and  it  is  only  by  your  suffer- 
ance that  I  am  allowed  to  keep  it.  If  I  thought  for  an  hour  of 
what  has  perhaps  crossed  your  mind  too " 

"Yes,  I  did,  Harry,"  said  she;  "I  thought  of  it;  and  think  of  it. 
I  would  sooner  call  you  my  son  than  the  greatest  prince  in  Europe 
— yes,  than  the  greatest  prince.  For  who  is  there  S3  good  and  so 
l;rave,  and  who  would  love  her  as  you  would?  But  there  are 
reasons  a  mother  can't  tell." 

"I  know  them,*'  said  Mr.  Esmond,  interrupting  lier  with  a 
smile.  "I  know  there's  Sir  Wilmot  Crawley  of  Queen's  Crawley, 
and  Mr.  Anthony  Henley  of  the  Grange,  and  my  Lord  Marquis  of 
Biandford,  that  seems  to  be  tlie  favoured  suitor.  You  shall  ask  me 
to  wear  my  Lady  Marchioness's  favours  and  to  dance  at  her  Lady- 
ship's wedding.'' 

"O  Harry,  Harry!  it  is  none  of  these  follies  that  frighten  me." 
cried  out  Lady  Castle  wood.  "Lord  Churchill  is  but  a  child,  his 
outbreak  about  Beatrix  was  a  mere  boyish  folly.  His  parents  would 
rather  see  him  buried  than  married  to  one  below  him  in  rank.    And 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  283 

do  you  think  that  I  would  stoop  to  sue  for  a  husband  for  Francis 
Esmond's  daughter;  or  submit  to  have  my  girl  smuggled  into  that 
proud  family  to  cause  a  quarrel  between  son  and  parents,  and  to  be 
treated  only  as  an  inferior?  I  would  disdain  such  a  meanness. 
Beatrix  would  scorn  it.  Ah!  Henry,  'tis  not  with  you  the  fault 
lies,  'tis  w^th  her.  I  know  you  both,  and  love  you:  need  I  be 
ashamed  of  that  love  now?  No,  never,  never,  and  'tis  not  you,  dear 
Harr}%  that  is  unworthy.  Tis  for  my  poor  Beatrix  I  tremble — 
whose  headstrong  will  frightens  me ;  whose  jealous  temper  (they 
say  I  was  jealous  too,  but,  pray  God,  I  am  cured  of  that  sin)  and 
whose  vanity  no  words  or  prayers  of  mine  can  cure — only  suffering, 
only  experience,  and  remorse  afterwards.  O  Henry,  she  will  make 
no  man  happy  who  loves  her.  Go  away,  my  son :  leave  her,  love 
us  always,  and  think  kindly  of  us:  and  for  me,  my  dear,  you  know 
that  these  walls  contain  all  that  I  love  in  the  world." 
/  In  after  life,  did  Esmond  find  the  words  true  which  his  fond 
listress  spoke  from  her  sad  heart?  Warning  he  had :  but  I  doubt 
others  had  warning  before  his  time,  and  since :  and  he  benefited  by 
I  it  as  most  men  do. 

My  young  Lord  Viscount  was  exceeding  sorry  when  he  heard 
that  Harry  could  not  come  to  the  cock-match  with  him,  and  must 
go  to  London,  but  no  doubt  my  Lord  consoled  himself  when  the 
Hampshire  cocks  won  the  match;  and  he  saw  every  one  of  the 
battles,  and  crowed  properly  over  the  conquered  Sussex  gen- 
tlemen. 

As  Esmond  rode  towards  town  his  servant,  coming  up  to  him, 
informed  him  with  a  grin,  that  Mistress  Beatrix  had  brought  out  a 
new  gown  and  blue  stockings  for  that  day's  dinner,  in  which  she 
intended  to  appear,  and  had  flown  into  a  rage  and  given  her  maid  a 
slap  on  the  face  soon  after  she  heard  he  was  going  awaj^  Mistress 
Beatrix's  woman,  the  fellow  said,  came  down  to  the  servants'  hall 
crying,  and  with  the  mark  of  a  blow  still  on  her  cheek;  but  Esmond 
peremptorily  ordered  him  to  fall  back  and  be  silent,  and  rode  on 
with  thoughts  enough  of  his  own  to  occupy  him — some  sad  ones, 
some  inexpressibly  dear  and  pleasant. 


284  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

His  mistress,  from  whom  he  had  been  a  year  separated,  was  his 
dearest  mistress  again.  The  family  from  which  he  had  been  parted, 
and  which  he  loved  with  the  fondest  devotion,  was  his  family  once 
more.  If  Beatrix's  beauty  shone  upon  him,  it  was  with  a  friendly 
lustre,  and  he  could  regard  it  with  much  such  a  delight  as  he 
brought  away  after  seeing  the  beautiful  pictures  of  the  smiling 
Madonnas  in  the  convent  at  Cadiz,  when  he  was  despatched  thither 
with  a  flag;  and  as  for  his  mistress,  'twas  difficult  to  say  with  what 
a  feeling  he  regarded  her.  'Twas  happiness  to  have  seen  her; 
'twas  no  great  pang  to  part;  a  filial  tenderness,  a  love  that  was  at 
once  respect  and  protection,  filled  his  mind  as  he  thought  of  her; 
and  near  her  or  far  from  her,  and  from  that  day  until  now,  and 
from  now  till  death  is  past,  and  beyond  it,  he  prays  that  sacred 
flame  may  ever  burn. 


CHAPTER  IX 


I   MAKE   THE   CAMPAIGN   OF   1704 


Mr.  Esmond  rode  up  to  London  then,  where,  if  tlie  Dowager  liad 
been  angry  at  the  abrupt  leave  of  absence  he  took,  she  was  mightily 
pleased  at  his  speedy  return. 

He  went  immediately  and  paid  his  court  to  his  new  general. 
General  Lumley,  who  received  him  graciously,  having  known  his 
father,  and  also,  he  was  pleased  to  say,  having  had  the  very  best 
accounts  of  Mr.  Esmond  from  the  officer  whose  aide-de-camp  he 
had  been  at  Vigo.  During  this  winter  Mr.  Esmond  was  gazetted  to 
a  lieutenancy  in  Brigadier  Webb's  regiment  of  Fusileers,  then  with 
their  colonel  in  Flanders;  but  being  now  attached  to  the  suite  of  Mr. 
Lumley,  Esmond  did  not  join  his  own  regiment  until  more  than  a 
year  afterwards, and  after  his  return  from  the  campaign  of  Blenheim, 
which  was  fought  the  next  year.  The  campaign  began  very 
early,  our  troops  marching  out  of  their  quarters  before  the  winter 
was  almost  over,  and  investing  the  city  of  Bonn,  on  the  Rhine, 
under  the  Duke's  command.  His  Grace  joined  the  army  in  deep 
grief  of  mind,  with  crape  on  his  sleeve,  and  his  household  in 
mourning;  and  the  very  same  packet  which  brought  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief over,  brought  letters  to  the  forces  which  preceded 
him,  and  one  from  his  dear  mistress  to  Esmond,  which  interested 
him  not  a  little. 

Y  The  young  Marquis  of  Blandford,  his  Grace's  son,  who  had  been 
entered  in  King's  College  in  Cambridge  (whither  my  Lord  Viscount 
had  also  gone,  to  Trinity,  with  'Mr.  Tusher  as  his  governor),  had 
been  seized  with  smallpox,  and  was  dead  at  sixteen  years  of  age, 
and  so  poor  Frank's  schemes  for  his  sister's  advancement  were  over, 
and  that  innocent  childish  passion  nipped  in  the  birth. 

Esmond's  mistress  would  have  had  him  return,  at  least  her 
letters  hinted  as  much ;  but  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy  this  was 

285 


286  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

impossible,  and  our  young  man  took  his  humble  share  in  the  siege, 
which  need  not  be  described  here,  and  liad  the  good-luck  to 
escape  witliout  a  wound  of  any  sort,  and  to  drink  his  General's 
health  after  the  surrender.  He  was  in  constant  military  duty  this 
year,  and  did  not  think  of  asking  for  a  leave  of  absence,  as  one  or 
two  of  his  less  fortunate  friends  did,  who  were  cast  awaj'  in  that 
tremendous  storm  which  happened  towards  the  close  of  November, 
that  "which  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past"  (as  Mr.  Addison  sang 
of  it),  and  in  which  scores  of  our  greatest  ships  and  15,000  of  our 
seamen  went  down. 

They  said  that  our  Duke  was  quite  heartbroken  by  the  calamity 
which  had  befallen  his  family;  but  his  enemies  found  that  he 
could  subdue  them,  as  well  as  master  his  grief.  Successful  as  had 
been  this  great  General's  operations  in  the  past  year,  they  were  far 
enhanced  by  the  splendour  of  his  victory  in  the  ensuing  campaign. 
His  Grace  the  Captain-General  went  to  England  after  Bonn,  and 
our  army  fell  back  into  Holland,  wliere,  in  April  1704,  his  Grace 
again  found  |the  troops,  embarking  from  Harwich  and  landing  at 
Maesland  Sluys :  thence  his  Grace  came  immediately  to  the  Hague, 
where  he  received  the  foreign  ministers,  general  officers,  and  other 
people  of  quality.  The  greatest  honours  were  paid  to  his  Grace 
everywhere — at  the  Hague,  Utrecht,  Ruremonde,  and  Maestricht; 
the  civil  authorities  coming  to  meet  his  coaches;  salvoes  of  cannon 
saluting  him,  canopies  of  state  being  erected  for  him  where  he 
stopped,  and  feasts  prepared  for  the  numerous  gentlemen  following 
in  his  suite.  His  Grace  reviewed  the  troops  of  the  States-General 
between  Liege  and  Maestricht,  and  afterwards  the  English  forces, 
under  the  command  of  General  Churchill,  near  Bois-le-Duc.  Every 
preparation  was  made  for  a  long  march;  and  the  army  heard,  with 
no  small  elation,  that  it  was  the  Commander-in-Chief's  intention  to 
carry  the  war  out  of  the  Low  Countries,  and  to  march  on  the 
Mozelle.  Before  leaving  our  camp  at  Maestricht  we  heard  that  the 
French,  under  the  Marshal  Villeroy,  were  also  bound  towards  the 
Mozelle. 

Towards  the  end  of  Mav,  the  armv  reached  Coblentz;  and  next 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  287 

day,  his  Grace,  and  the  generals  accompanying  him  went  to  visit 
the  Elector  of  Treves  at  his  Castle  of  Ehrenbreitstein,  the  horse  and 
dragoons  passing  the  Rhine  whilst  the  Duke  was  entertained  at  a 
grand  feast  by  the  Elector.  All  as  yet  was  novelty,  festivity,  and 
splendour — a  brilliant  march  of  a  great  and  glorious  army  through 
a  friendly  country,  and  sure  through  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
scenes  of  nature  which  I  ever  witnessed. 

The  foot  and  artillery,  following  after  the  horse  as  quick  as  pos- 
sible, crossed  the  Rhine  under  Ehrenbreitstein,  and  so  to  Castel, 
over  against  Mayntz,  in  which  city  his  Grace,  his  generals,  and  his 
retinue  were  received  at  the  landin j-place  by  the  Elector's 
coaches,  carried  to  his  Highness's  palace  amidst  the  thunder  of 
cannon,  and  then  once  more  magnificently  entertained.  Gidlingen, 
in  Bavaria,  was  appointed  as  the  general  rendezvous  of  the  army, 
and  thither,  by  different  routes,  the  whole  forces  of  English,  Dutch, 
Danes,  and  German  auxiliaries  took  their  way.  The  foot  and  artil- 
lery under  General  Churchill  passed  the  Neckar,  at  Heidelberg 
and  Esmond  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  that  city  and  palace, 
once  so  famous  and  beautiful  (though  shattered  and  battered  by 
the  French,  under  Turenne,  in  the  late  war),  where  his  grandsire 
Had  served  the  beautiful  and  unfortunate  Electress-Palatine,  the 
first  King  Charles's  sister. 

At  Mindelsheim,  the  famous  Prince  of  Savoy  came  to  visit  our 
commander,  all  of  us  crowding  eagerly  to  get  a  sight  of  that 
brilliant  and  intrepid  warrior ;  and  our  troops  were  drawn  up  in 
battalia  before  the  Prince,  who  was  pleased  to  express  his  admira- 
tion of  this  noble  English  army.  At  length  we  came  in  sight  of  the 
enemy  between  Dillingen  and  Lawingen,  the  Brentz  lying  between 
the  two  armies.  The  Elector,  judging  that  Donauwort  would  be 
the  point  of  his  Grace's  attack,  sent  a  strong  detachment  of  his 
best  troops  to  Count  Darcos,  who  was  posted  at  Schellenberg,  near 
that  place,  where  great  intrenchments  were  thrown  up,  and 
thousands  of  pioneers  employed  to  strengthen  the  position. 

On  the  2nd  of  July  his  Grace  stormed  the  post,  with  what  suc- 
cess on  our  part  need  scarce  be  told.     His  Grace  advanced  with  six 


288  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

thousand  foot,  English  and  Dutch,  thirty  squadrons,  and  three 
regiments  of  Imperial  Cuirassiers,  the  Duke  crossing  the  river  at 
the  head  of  the  cavalry.  Although  our  troops  made  the  attack 
with  unparalleled  courage  and  fury — rushing  up  to  the  very  guns  of 
the  enemy,  and  being  slaughtered  before  their  works — we  were 
driven  back  many  times,  and  should  not  have  carried  them,  but 
that  the  Imperialists  came  up  under  the  Prince  of  Baden,  when  the 
enemy  could  make  no  head  against  us:  we  pursued  him  into  the 
trenches,  making  a  terrible  slaughter  there,  and  into  the  very 
Danube,  where  a  great  part  of  his  troops,  following  the  example  of 
their  generals,  Count  Darcos  and  the  Elector  himself,  tried  to  save 
themselves  by  swimming.  Our  army  entered  Donauwort,  which 
the  Bavarians  evacuated;  and  where  'twas  said  the  Elector  pur- 
posed to  have  given  us  a  warm  reception,  by  burning  us  in  our 
beds;  the  cellars  of  the  houses,  when  we  took  possession  of  them, 
being  found  stufiPed  with  straw.  But  though  the  links  were  there, 
the  linkboys  had  run  away.  The  townsmen  saved  their  houses, 
and  our  General  took  possession  of  the  enemy's  ammunition  in  the 
arsenals,  his  stores,  and  magazines.  Five  days  afterwards  a  great 
"Te  Deum"  was  sung  in  Prince  Lewis's  army,  and  a  solemn  day  of 
thanksgiving  held  in  our  own ;  the  Prince  of  Savoy's  compliments 
coming  to  his  Grace  the  Captain-General  during  the  day's  religious 
ceremony,  and  concluding,  as  it  were,  with  an  Amen. 

And  now,  having  seen  a  great  military  march  through  a  friendly 
country;  the  pomps  and  festivities  of  more  than  one  German  court; 
the  severe  struggle  of  a  hotly  contested  battle,  and  the  triumph  of 
victory,  Mr.  Esmond  beheld  another  part  of  military  duty:  our 
troops  entering  the  enemy's  territory,  and  putting  all  around  them 
to  fire  and  sword ;  burning  farms,  wasted  fields,  shrieking  women, 
slaughtered  sons  and  fathers,  and  drunken  soldiery,  cursing  and 
carousing  in  the  midst  of  tears,  terror,  and  murder.  Why  does 
the  stately  Muse  of  Histor}^  that  delights  in  describing  the  valour 
of  heroes  and  the  grandeur  of  conquest,  leave  out  these  scenes,  so 
brutal,  mean,  and  degrading,  that  yet  form  by  far  the  greater  part 
of  the  drama  of  war?    You,    gentlemen  of  England,  who  live  at 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  289 

home  at  ease,  and  compliment  yourselves  in  the  songs  of  triumph 
with  which  our  chieftains  are  bepraised — you,  pretty  maidens, 
that  come  tumbling  down  the  stairs  when  the  fife  and  drum  call 
you,  and  huzzah  for  the  British  Grenadiers — do  you  take  account 
that  these  items  go  to  make  up  tlie  amount  of  the  triumph  you 
admire,  and  form  part  of  the  duties  of  the  heroes  you  fondle?  Our 
chief,  whom  England  and  all  Europe,  saving  only  the  Frenchmen, 
worshipped  almost,  had  this  of  the  godlike  in  him,  that  he  was 
impassable  before  victory,  before  danger,  before  defeat.y  Before 
the  greatest  obstacle  or  the  most  trivial  ceremony;  before  a 
hundred  thousand  men  drawn  in  battalia,  or  a  peasant  slaughtered 
at  the  door  of  his  burning  hovel;  before  a  carouse  of  drunken 
German  lords,  or  a  monarch's  court,  or  a  cottage  table  where  his 
plans  were  laid,  or  an  enemy's  battery,  vomiting  flame  and  death, 
and  strewing  corpses  round  about  him; — he  was  always  cold,  calm, 
resolute,  like  fate.  He  performed  a  treason  or  a  court-bow,  he  told 
a  falsehood  as  black  as  Styx,  as  easily  as  he  paid  a  compliment  or 
spoke  about  the  weather.  He  took  a  mistress,  and  left  her;  he 
betrayed  his  benefactor,  and  supported  him,  or  would  have  mur- 
dered him,  with  the  same  calmness  always,  and  having  no  more 
remorse  than  Clotho  when  she  weaves  the  thread,  or  Lachesis  when 
she   cuts   it.     In   the  hour  of  battle   I  have  heard  the  Prince  of 

I  Savoy's  officers  say,  the  Prince  became  possessed  with  a  sort  of 

'i 

j  warlike  fury;  his  eyes  lighted  up;  he  rushed  hither  and  thither, 

1  raging;  he  shrieked  curses  and  encouragement,  yelling  and  harking 
!  his  bloody  war-dogs  on,  and  himself  always  at  the  first  of  the 
I  hunt.     Our  Duke  was  as  calm  at  the  mouth  of  the  cannon  as  at  the  ,^ 
i|  door  of  a  drawing-room.    Perhaps  he  could  not  have  been  the  great      ' 
i'  man  he  was,  had  he  had  a  heart  either  for  love  or  hatred,  or  pity  or 
f  fear,  or  regret  or  remorse.    He  achieved  the  highest  deed  of  daring, 
or  deepest  calculation  of  thought,  as  he  performed  the  very  mean- 
est action  of  which  a  man  is  capable ;  told  a  lie,  or  cheated  a  fond 
woman,  or  robbed  a  poor  beggar  of  a  halfpenny,  with  a  like  awful 
serenity  and  equal  capacity  of  the  highest  and  lowest  acts  of  our 
'  nature. 


290  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

His  qualities  were  pretty  well  known  in  the  army,  where  there 
were  parties  of  all  politics,  and  of  plenty  of  shrewdness  and  wit ; 
but  there  existed  such  a  perfect  confidence  in  him,  as  the  first  cap- 
tain of  the  world,  and  such  a  faith  and  admiration  in  his  prodigious 
genius  and  fortune,  that  the  very  men  whom  he  notoriously 
cheated  of  their  pay,  the  chiefs  whom  he  used  and  injured — for  he 
used  all  men,  great  and  small,  that  came  near  him,  as  his  instru- 
ments alike,  and  took  something  of  theirs,  either  some  quality  or 
some  property — the  blood  of  a  soldier,  it  might  be,  or  a  jewelled 
hat,  or  a  hundred  thousand  crowns  from  a  king,  or  a  portion  out  of 
a  starving  sentinel's  three-farthings;  or  (when  he  was  young)  a  kiss 
from  a  woman,  and  the  gold  chain  off  her  neck,  taking  all  he  could 
from  woman  or  man,  and  having,  as  I  have  said,  this  of  the  god- 
like in  him,  that  he  could  see  a  hero  perish  or  a  sparrow  fall,  with 
the  same  amount  of  sympathy  for  either.  Not  that  he  had  no 
tears :  he  could  always  order  up  this  reserve  at  the  proper  moment 
to  battle ;  he  could  draw  upon  tears  or  smiles  alike,  and  whenever 
need  was  for  using  this  cheap  coin.  He  would  cringe  to  a  shoe- 
black, as  he  would  flatter  a  minister  or  a  monarch ;  be  haughty,  be 
humble,  threaten,  repent,  weep,  grasp  your  hand  (or  stab  you 
whenever  he  saw  occasion). — But  yet  those  of  the  army,  who  knew 
him  best  and  had  suffered  most  from  him,  admired  him  most  of  all : 
and  as  he  rode  along  the  lines  to  battle  or  galloped  up  in  the  nick  of 
time  to  a  battalion  reeling  from  before  the  enemy's  charge  or  shot, 
the  fainting  men  and  officers  got  new  courage  as  they  saw  the 
splendid  calm  of  his  face,  and  felt  that  his  will  made  them 
irresistible. 

After  the  great  victory  of  Blenheim  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
army  for  the  Duke,  even  of  his  bitterest  personal  enemies  in  it, 
amounted  to  a  sort  of  rage — nay,  the  very  officers  who  cursed  him 
in  their  hearts  were  among  the  most  frantic  to  cheer  him.  Who 
could  refuse  his  meed  of  admiration  to  such  a  victory  and  such  a 
victor?  Not  he  who  writes:  a  man  may  profess  to  be  ever  so  much 
a  philosopher ;  but  he  who  fought  on  that  day  must  feel  a  thrill  of 
pride  as  he  recalls  it. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  291 

The  French  right  was  posted  near  to  the  village  of  Blenheim,  on 
the  Danube,  where  the  Marshal  Tallard's  quarters  were;  their  line 
extending  through,  it  may  be  a  league  and  a  half,  before  Lutzingen 
and  up  to  a  woody  hill,  round  the  base  of  which,  and  acting  against 
the  Prince  of  Savoy,  were  forty  of  his  squadrons. 

Here  was  a  village  that  the  Frenchmen  had  burned,  the  wood 
being,  in  fact,  a  better  shelter  and  easier  of  guard  than  any  village. 
Before  these  two  villages  and  the  French  lines  ran  a  little  stream, 
not  more  than  two  foot  broad,  through  a  marsh  (that  was  mostly 
dried  up  from  the  heats  of  the  weather),  and  this  stream  was  the 
only  separation  between  the  two  armies — ours  coming  up  and  rang- 
ing themselves  in  line  of  battle  before  the  Freach,  ■'t  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning;  so  that  our  line  was  quite  visil le  to  theirs;  and  the 
whole  of  this  great  plain  was  black  and  swarming  with  troops  for 
hours  before  the  cannonading  began. 

On  one  side  and  the  other  this  cannonading  lasted  many  hours; 
the  French  guns  being  in  position  in  front  of  their  line,  and  doing 
severe  damage  among  our  horse  especially,  and  on  our  right  wing 
of  Imperialists  under  the  Prince  of  Savoy,  who  could  neither 
advance  his  artillery  nor  his  lines,  the  ground  before  him  being  cut 
up  by  ditches,  morasses,  and  very  difficult  of  passage  for  the 
guns. 

It  was  past  mid-day  when  the  attack  .began  on  our  left,  where 
Lord  Cutts  commanded,  the  bravest  and  most  beloved  officer  in  the 
English  army.  And  now,  as  if  to  make  his  experience  in  war  com- 
I  plete,  our  young  aide-de-camp  having  seen  two  great  armies  facing 
I  each  other  in  line  of  battle,  and  had  the  honour  of  riding  with 
I  orders  from  one  end  to  other  of  the  line,  came  in  for  a  not  uncom- 
'  mon  accompaniment  of  military  glory,  and  was  knocked  on  the 
I  head,  along  with  many  hundred  of  brave  fellows,  almost  at  the 
^  very  commencement  of  this  famous  day  of  Blenheim.  A  little 
}  after  noon,  the  disposition  for  attack  being  completed  with  much 
I  delay  and  difficulty,  and  under  a  severe  fire  from  the  enemy's  guns, 
I  that  were  better  posted  and  more  numerous  than  ours,  a  body  of 
'■'  English  and  Hessians,  with  Major-General  Wilkes  commanding  at 

i 


292  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

the  extreme  left  of  our  line,  marched  upon  Blenheim,  advancing 
with  great  gallantry,  the  Major-General  on  foot,  with  his  officers, 
at  the  head  of  the  column,  and  marching,  with  his  hat  off,  intrep- 
idly in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  who  was  pouring  in  a  tremendous 
fire  from  his  guns  and  musketry,  to  which  our  people  were 
instructed  not  to  reply,  except  with  pike  and  bayonet  when  they 
reached  the  French  palisades.  To  these  Wilkes  walked  intrepidly, 
and  struck  the  woodwork  with  his  sword  before  our  people  charged 
it.  He  was  shot  down  at  the  instant,  with  his  colonel,  major,  and 
several  officers;  and  our  troops  cheering  and  huzzaing,  and  coming 
on,  as  they  did,  with  immense  resolution  and  gallantry,  were  never- 
theless stopped  by  the  murderous  fire  from  behind  the  enemy's 
defences,  and  then  attacked  in  flank  by  a  furious  charge  of  French 
horse  which  swept  out  of  Blenheim,  and  cut  down  our  men  in  great 
numbers.  Three  fierce  and  desperate  assaults  of  our  foot  were 
made  and  repulsed  by  the  enemy;  so  that  our  columns  of  foot  were 
quite  shattered,  and  fell  back,  scrambling  over  the  little  rivulet, 
which  we  had  crossed  so  resolutely  an  hour  before,  and  pursued 
by  the  French  cavalry,  slaughtering  us  and  cutting  us  down. 
And  now  the  conquerors  were  met  by  a  furious  charge  of  English 
horse  under  Esmond's  general.  General  Lumley,  behind  whose 
squadrons  the  flying  foot  found  refuge,  and  formed  again,  whilst 
Lumle}^  drove  back  the  French  horse,  charging  up  to  the  village  of 
Blenheim  and  the  palisades  where  Wilkes,  and  many  hundred  more 
gallant  Englishmen,  lay  in  slaughtered  heaps.  Beyond  this 
moment,  and  of  this  famous  victory  Mr.  Esmond  knows  nothing; 
for  a  shot  brought  down  his  horse  and  our  young  gentleman  on  it, 
who  fell  crushed  and  stunned  under  the  animal,  and  came  to  his 
senses  he  knows  not  how  Jong  after,  only  to  lose  them  again  from 
pain  and  loss  of  blood.  A  dim  sense,  as  of  people  groaning  round 
about  him,  a  wild  incoherent  thought  or  two  for  her  who  occupied 
so  much  of  his  heart  now,  and  that  here  his  career,  and  his  hopes, 
and  misfortunes  were  ended,  he  remembers  in  the  course  of  these 
hours.  When  he  woke  up,  it  was  with  a  pang  of  extreme  pain,  his 
breastplate  was  taken  off,  his  servant  was  holding  his  head  up,  the 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  293 

good  and  faithful  lad  of  Hampshire^  was  blubbering  over  his 
master,  M'hom  he  found  and  had  thought  dead,  and  a  surgeon  was 
probing  a  wound  in  the  shoulder,  which  he  must  have  got  at  the 
same  moment  when  his  horse  was  shot  and  fell  over  him.  The 
battle  was  over  at  tliis  end  of  the  field,  by  this  time:  the  village  was 
in  possession  of  the  English,  its  brave  defenders  prisoners,  or  fled,  or 
drowned,  many  of  them,  in  the  neighbouring  waters  of  Donau. 
But  for  honest  Lockwood's  faithful  search  after  his  master,  there 
had  no  doubt  been  an  end  of  Esmond  here,  and  of  this  his  story. 
The  marauders  were  out  rifling  the  bodies  as  they  lay  on  the  field, 
and  Jack  had  brained  one  of  these  gentry  with  the  club-end  of  his 
musket,  who  had  eased  Esmond  of  his  hat  and  periwig,  his  purse, 
and  fine  silver-mounted  pistols  which  the  Dowager  gave  him,  and 
was  fumbling  in  his  pockets  for  further  treasure,  when  Jack  Lock- 
wood  came  up  and  put  an  end  to  the  scoundrel's  triumph. 

Hospitals  for  our  wounded  were  established  at  Blenheim,  and 
here  for  several  weeks  Esmond  lay  in  very  great  danger  of  his  life ; 
the  wound  was  not  very  great  from  which  he  suffered,  and  the  ball 
extracted  by  the  surgeon  on  the  spot  where  our  young  gentleman 
received  it ;  but  a  fever  set  in  next  day,  as  he  was  lying  in  hospital, 
and  that  almost  carried  him  away.  Jack  Lockwood  said  he  talked 
in  the  wildest  manner  during  his  delirium;  that  he  called  himself 
the  Marquis  of  Esmond,  and  seizing  one  of  the  surgeon's  assistants 
who  came  to  dress  his  wounds,  swore  that  he  was  Madame  Beatrix, 
and  that  he  would  make  her  a  duchess  if  she  would  but  say,  yes. 
He  was  passing  the  days  in  these  crazy  fancies,  and  vana  somnia, 
whilst  the  army  was  singing  "Te  Deum''  for  the  victorj^  and  those 
famous  festivities  were  taking  place  at  which  our  Duke,  now  made 
a  Prince  of  the  Empire,  was  entertained  by  the  King  of  the 
Romans  and  his  nobility.  His  Grace  went  home  by  Berlin  and 
Hanover,  and  Esmond  lost  the  festivities  which  took  place  at  those 
cities,  and  which  his  General  shared  in  company  of  the  other  gen- 
eral officers  who  travelled  with  our  great  captain.     When  he  could 

1  My  mistress,  before  I  went  this  campaign,  sent  me  John  Lockwood  out  of 
Walcote.  who  hath  ever  since  remained  with  me.— H.  E. 


294  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

move,  it  was  by  the  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg's  city  of  Stuttgard  that 
he  made  his  way  homewards,  revisiting  Heidelberg  again,  whence 
he  went  to  Mannheim,  and  hence  had  a  tedious  but  easy  water 
journey  down  the  river  of  Rhine,  which  he  had  thought  a  delight- 
ful and  beautiful  voyage  indeed,  but  that  his  heart  was  longing  for 
home,  and  something  far  more  beautiful  and  delightful. 

As  bright  and  welcome  as  the  eyes  almost  of  his  mistress  shone 
the  lights  of  Harwich,  as  the  packet  came  in  from  Holland.  It  was 
not  many  hours  ere  he,  Esmond,  was  in  London,  of  that  you  may 
be  sure,  and  received  with  open  arms  by  the  old  Dowager  of  Chel- 
sey,  who  vowed,  in  her  jargon  of  French  and  English,  that  he  had 
the  air  noble,  that  his  pallor  embellished  him,  that  he  was  an 
Amadis  and  deserved  a  Gloriana;  and  oh!  flames  and  darts!  what 
was  his  joy  at  hearing  that  his  mistress  was  come  into  waiting,  and 
was  now  with  her  Majesty  at  Kensington !  Although  Mr.  Esmond 
had  told  Jack  Lockwood  to  get  horses  and  they  would  ride  for  Win- 
chester that  night,  when  he  heard  this  news  he  countermanded  the 
horses  at  once ;  his  business  lay  no  longer  in  Hants ;  all  his  hope 
and  desire  lay  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  him  in  Kensington  Park 
wall.  Poor  Harry  had  never  looked  in  the  glass  before  so  eagerly 
to  see  w^hether  he  had  the  hel  air,  and  his  paleness  really  did 
become  him;  he  never  took  such  pains  about  the  curl  of  his  peri- 
wig, and  the  taste  of  his  embroidery  and  point-lace,  as  now,  before 
Mr.  Amadis  presented  himself  to  Madam  Gloriana.  Was  the  fire 
of  the  French  lines  half  so  murderous  as  the  killing  glances  from 
her  Ladyship's  eyes?  Oh!  darts  and  raptures,  how  beautiful  were 
they! 

And  as,  before  the  blazing  sun  of  morning,  the  moon  fades  away 
in  the  sky  almost  invisible,  Esmond  thought,  with  a  blush  perhaps, 
of  another  sweet  pale  face,  sad  and  faint,  and  fading  out  of  sight, 
with  its  sweet  fond  gaze  of  affection ;  such  a  last  look  it  seemed  to 
cast  as  Eurydice  miglit  have  given,  yearning  after  her  lover,  when 
Fate  and  Pluto  summoned  her,  and  she  passed  away  into  the  shades. 


CHAPTER  X 

AN  OLD  STORY   ABOUT  A   FOOL  AND  A  WOMAN 

Any  taste  for  pleasure  which  Esmond  had  (and  he  liked  to 
desipere  in  loco,  neither  more  nor  less  than  most  young  men  of  his 
age)  he  could  now  gratify  to  tlie  utmost  extent,  and  in  the  best 
company  which  the  town  afforded.  When  the  army  went  into 
winter  quarters  abroad,  those  of  the  officers  who  had  interest  or 
money  easily  got  leave  of  absence,  and  found  it  much  pleasanter  to 
spend  their  time  in  Pall  Mall  and  Hyde  Park,  than  to  pass  the  win- 
ter away  behind  the  fortifications  of  the  dreary  old  Flanders  towns, 
where  the  English  troops  were  gathered.  Yachts  and  packets 
passed  daily  between  the  Dutch  and  Flemish  ports  and  Harwich ; 
the  roads  thence  to  London  and  the  great  inns  were  crowded  with 
army  gentlemen ;  the  taverns  and  ordinaries  of  the  town  swarmed 
with  red-coats ;  and  our  great  Duke's  levees  at  St.  James's  were  as 
thronged  as  they  had  been  at  Ghent  and  Brussels,  where  we  treated 
him,  and  he  us,  with  the  grandeur  and  ceremony  of  a  sovereign. 
Though  Esmond  had  been  appointed  to  a  lieutenancy  in  the  Fusileer 
regiment,  of  which  tliat  celebrated  officer.  Brigadier  John  Rich- 
mond Webb,  was  colonel,  he  had  never  joined  the  regiment,  nor 
been  introduced  to  its  excellent  commander,  though  they  had  made 
the  same  campaign  together,  and  been  engaged  in  the  same  battle. 
But  being  aide-de-camp  to  General  Lumley,  who  commanded  the 
division  of  horse,  and  the  army  marching  to  its  point  of  destination 
on  the  Danube  by  different  routes,  Esmond  had  not  fallen  in,  as  yet, 
with  his  commander  and  future  comrades  of  the  fort;  and  it  was 
in  London,  in  Golden  Square,  where  Major-General  Webb  lodged, 
that  Captain  Esmond  had  the  honour  of  fii'St  paying  liis  respects  to 
his  friend,  patron,  and  commander  of  after  days. 

Those  who  remember  this  brilliant  and  accomplished  gentleman 
may  recollect   his  character,    upon   which  he  prided    himself,    I 

295 


296  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

think,  not  a  little,  of  being  the  handsomest  man  in  the  army ;  a  poet 
who  writ  a  dull  copy  of  verses  upon  the  battle  of  Oudenarde  three 
years  after,  describing  Webb,  says : — 

"To  noble  danger  Webb  conducts  the  way, 
His  great  example  all  his  troops  obey ; 
Before  the  front  the  General  sternly  rides. 
With  such  an  air  as  Mars  to  battle  strides: 
Propitious  Heaven  must  sure  a  hero  save, 
Like  Paris  handsome,  and  like  Hector  brave." 

Mr.  Webb  thought  these  verses  quite  as  fine  as  Mr.  Addison's  on 
the  Blenheim  Campaign,  and,  indeed,  to  be  Hector  a  la  mode  cle  Paris 
was  part  of  this  gallant  gentleman's  ambition.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  to  find  an  officer  in  the  whole  army,  or  amongst  the  splen- 
did courtiers  and  cavaliers  of  the  Maison  du  Roy.  that  fought  under 
Vendosme  and  Villeroy  in  the  army  ojjposed  to  ours,  wlio  was  a 
more  accomplished  soldier  and  perfect  gentleman,  and  either  braver 
or  better-looking.  And  if  Mr.  Webb  believed  of  himself  what  the 
world  said  of  him,  and  was  deeply  convinced  of  his  own  indisputa- 
ble genius,  beauty,  and  valour,  who  has  a  right  to  quarrel  with  him 
very  much?  This  self-content  of  his  kept  him  in  general  good- 
humour,  of  which  his  friends  and  dependants  got  the  benefit. 

He  came  of  a  very  ancient  Wiltshire  family,  which  he  respected 
above  all  families  in  the  world:  he  could  prove  a  lineal  descent 
from  King  Edward  the  First,  and  his  first  ancestor,  Roaldus  de 
Richmond,  rode  by  William  the  Conqueror's  side  on  Hastings  field. 
"We  were  gentlemen,  Esmond,"  he  used  to  say,  "when  the 
Churchills  were  horseboys."  He  was  a  very  tall  man,  standing  in 
his  pumps  six  feet  three  inches  (in  his  great  jack-boots,  with  his 
tall  fair  periwig,  and  hat  and  feather,  he  could  not  have  been  less 
than  eight  feet  high).  "I  am  taller  than  Churchill,"  he  would  say, 
surveying  himself  in  the  glass,  "and  I  am  a  better-made  man;  and 
if  the  women  won't  like  a  man  that  hasn't  a  wart  on  his  nose, 
faith,  I  can't  help  myself,  and  CI'"  lill  has  the  better  of  me 
there."  Indeed,  he  was  always  measuring  himself  with  the  Duke, 
and  always  asking  his  friends  to  measure  them.  And  talking  in  this 
frank  way,  as  he  would  do,  over  his  cups,  wags  would  laugh  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  297 

encourage  him;  friends  would  be  sorry  for  him;  schemers  and  flat- 
terers would  egg  him  on,  and  tale-bearers  carry  the  stories  to  head- 
quarters, and  widen  the  difference  which  already  existed  there 
between  the  great  captain  and  one  of  the  ablest  and  bravest  lieu- 
tenants he  ever  had. 

His  rancour  against  the  Duke  was  so  apparent,  that  one  saw  it 
in  the  first  half-hour's  conversation  with  General  Webb;  and  his 
Iddy,  who  adored  her  General,  and  thought  him  a  hundred  times 
taller,  handsomer,  and  braver  than  a  prodigal  nature  had  made 
him,  hated  the  great  Duke  with  such  an  intensity  as  it  becomes 
faithful  wives  to  feel  against  their  husbands'  enemies.  Not  that  my 
Lord  Duke  was  so  yet;  Mr.  Webb  had  said  a  thousand  things 
against  him,  which  his  superior  had  pardoned;  and  his  Grace, 
whose  spies  were  everywhere,  had  heard  a  thousand  things 
more  that  Webb  had  never  said.  But  it  cost  this  great  man 
no  pains  to  pardon ;  and  he  passed  over  an  injury  or  a  benefit  alike 
easily. 

Should  any  child  of  mine  take  the  pains  to  read  these  his  ances- 
tor's memoirs,  I  would  not  have  him  judge  of  the  great  Duke  ^  by 
what  a  contemporary  has  written  of  him.  No  man  hath  been  so 
immensely  lauded  and  decried  as  this  great  statesman  and  warrior; 
as,  indeed,  no  man  ever  deserved  better  the  very  greatest  praise 
and  the  strongest  censure.  If  the  present  writer  joins  with  the 
latter  faction,  very  likely  a  private  pique  of  his  own  may  be  the 
cause  of  his  ill-feeling. 

On  presenting  himself  at  the  Commander-in-Chief's  levee,  his 
Grace  had  not  the  least  remembrance  of  General  Lumley's  aide-de- 
camp, and  though  he  knew  Esmond's  family  perfectly  well,  having 
served  with  both  lords  (my  Lord  Francis  and  the  Viscount  Esmond's 
father)  in  Flanders,  and  in  the  Duke  of  York's  Guard,  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough,  who  was  friendly  and  serviceable  to  the  (so-styled) 
legitimate  representatives  of  the  Viscount  Castlewood,  took  no  sort 

1  This  passage  in  the  Memoirs  of  Esmond  is  written  on  a  leaf  inserted  into 
the  MS.  t)Ook,  and  dated  1744,  probably  after  he  had  heard  of  the  Duchess's 
death. 


298  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

of  notice  of  the  poor  lieutenant  who  bore  their  name.  A  word  of 
kindness  or  acknowledgment,  or  a  single  glance  of  approbation, 
might  have  changed  Esmond's  opinion  of  the  great  man;  and 
instead  of  a  satire,  which  his  pen  cannot  help  writing,  who  knows 
but  that  ihe  humble  historian  might  have  taken  the  other  side  of 
panegyric?  We  have  but  to  change  the  point  of  view,  and  the 
greatest  action  looks  mean ;  as  w^e  turn  the  perspective-glass,  and  a 
giant  appears  a  pigmy.  You  may  describe,  but  who  can  tell 
whether  your  sight  is  clear  or  not,  or  your  means  of  information 
accurate?  Had  the  great  man  said  but  a  word  of  kindness  to  the 
small  one  (as  he  would  have  stepped  out  of  his  gilt  chariot  to  shake 
hands  with  Lazarus  in  rags  and  sores,  if  he  thought  Lazarus  could 
have  been  of  any  service  to  him),  no  doubt  Esmond  would  have 
/ought  for  him  with  pen  and  sword  to  the  utmost  of  his  might ;  but 
my  lord  the  lion  did  not  want  master  mouse  at  this  moment,  and 
so  Muscipulus  went  off  and  nibbled  in  opposition. 

So  it  was,  however,  that  a  young  gentleman,  who,  in  the  eyes 
of  his  family,  and  in  his  own,  doubtless,  was  looked  upon  as  a  con- 
summate hero,  found  that  the  great  hero  of  the  day  took  no  more 
notice  of  him  than  of  the  smallest  drummer  in  his  Grace's  army. 
The  Dowager  of  Chelsey  was  furious  against  this  neglect  of  her 
family,  and  had  a  great  battle  with  Lady  Marlborough  (as  Lady 
Castlewood  insisted  on  [calling  the  Duchess).  Her  Grace  was  now 
Mistress  of  the  Robes  to  her  Majesty,  and  one  of  the  greatest  per- 
sonages in  this  kingdom,  as  her  husband  was  in  all  Europe,  and  the 
battle  between  the  two  ladies  took  place  in  the  Queen's  drawing- 
room. 

The  Duchess,  in  reply  to  my  aunt's  eager  clamour,  said  haught- 
ily, that  she  had  done  her  best  for  the  legitimate  branch  of  the 
Esmonds,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  provide  for  the  bastard  brats 
of  the  family. 

'  'Bastards !' *  says  the  Viscountess,  in  a  fury.  "There  are  bastards 
among  the  Churchills,  as  your  Grace  knows,  and  the  Duke  of 
Berwick  is  provided  for  well  enough.'' 

"Madam,''  says  the  Duchess,  "you  know  whose  fault  it  is  that 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  299 

there  are  no  such  dukes  in  the  Esmond  family  too,  and  how  that 
little  scheme  of  a  certain  lady  miscarried." 

Esmond's  friend,  Dick  Steele,  who  was  in  waiting  on  the  Prince, 
heard  the  controversy  between  the  ladies  at  Court.  "And  faith," 
says  Dick,  "I  think,  Harry,  thy  kinswoman  had  the  worst  of  it." 

He  could  not  keep  the  story  quiet :  'twas  all  over  the  coffee- 
houses ere  night;  it  was  printed  in  a  news-letter  before  a  month 
was  over,  and  "The  reply  of  her  Grace  the  Dvichess  of  M-rlb-r-gh 
to  a  Popish  Lady  of  the  Court,  once  a  favourite  of  the  late 
K —  J-m-s,"  was  printed  in  half-a-dozen  places,  with  a  note  stating 
that  "this  Duchess,  when  the  head  of  this  lady's  family  came  by 
his  death  lately  in  a  fatal  duel,  never  rested  until  she  got  a  pension 
for  the  orphan  heir,  and  widow,  from  her  Majesty's  bounty."  The 
squabble  did  not  advance  poor  Esmond's  promotion  much,  and 
indeed  made  him  so  ashamed  of  himself  that  he  dared  not  show  his 
face  at  the  Commander-in-Chief's  levees  again. 

During  those  eighteen  months  which  had  passed  since  Esmond 
saw  his  dear  mistress,  her  good  father,  the  old  Dean,  quitted  this 
life,  firm  in  his  principles  to  the  very  last,  and  enjoining  his  family 
always  to  remember  that  the  Queen's  brother,  King  James,  the 
Third,  was  their  rightful  sovereign.  He  made  a  very  edifying  end, 
as  his  daughter  told  Esmond,  and  not  a  little  to  her  surprise,  after 
his  death  (for  he  had  lived  always  very  poorly)  my  Lady  found  that 
her  father  had  left  no  less  a  sum  than  £3000  behind  him,  which  he 
bequeathed  to  her. 

With  this  little  fortune  Lady  Castlewood  was  enabled,  when  her 
daughter's  turn  at  Court  came,  to  come  to  London,  where  she  took 
a  small  genteel  liouse  at  Kensington,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Court,  bringing  her  children  with  her,  and  here  it  was  that 
Esmond  found  his  friends. 

As  for  the  young  lord,  his  university  career  had  ended  rather 
abruptly.  Honest  Tusher,  his  governor,  had  found  my  young  gen- 
tleman quite  ungovernable.  My  Lord  worried  his  life  away  with 
tricks;  and  broke  out,  as  home-bred  lads  will,  into  a  hundred  youtli- 
ful  extravagances,    so   that   Doctor   Bentley,    the   new   Master  of 


300  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

Trinity,  thought  fit  to  write  to  the  Viscountess  Castlewood,  my 
Lord's  mother,  and  beg  her  to  remove  the  young  nobleman  from  a 
college  where  he  declined  to  learn,  and  where  he  only  did  harm  by 
his  riotous  example.  Indeed,  I  believe  he  nearly  set  fire  to  NeviFs 
Court,  that  beautiful  new  quadrangle  of  our  college,  which  Sir 
Christopher  Wren  had  lately  built.  He  knocked  down  a  proctor's 
man  that  wanted  to  arrest  him  in  a  midnight  prank;  he  gave  a 
dinner-party  on  the  Prince  of  Wales's  birthday,  which  was  within  a 
fortnight  of  his  own,  and  the  twenty  young  gentlemen  then  present 
sallied  out  after  their  wine,  having  toasted  King  James's  health 
with  open  windows,  and  sung  cavalier  songs,  and  shouted  "God 
save  the  King!"'  in  the  great  court,  so  that  the  Master  came  out  of 
his  lodge  at  midnight,  and  dissipated  the  riotous  assembly. 

This  was  my  Lord's  crowning  freak,  and  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Tusher,  Domestic  Chaplain  to  the  Right  Honourable  the  Lord 
Viscount  Castlewood,  finding  his  prayers  and  sermons  of  no  earthly 
avail  to  his  Lordship,  gave  up  his  duties  of  governor ;  went  and 
married  his  brewer's  widow  at  Southampton,  and  took  her  and  her 
money  to  his  parsonage  house  at  Castlewood. 

My  Lady  could  not  be  angry  with  her  son  for  drinking  King 
James's  health,  being  herself  a  loyal  Tory,  as  all  the  Castlewood 
familj^  were,  and  acquiesced  with  a  sigh,  knowing,  perhaps,  that 
her  refusal  would  be  of  no  avail  to  the  young  lord's  desire  for  a 
military  life.  She  would  have  liked  him  to  be  in  Mr.  Esmond's  regi- 
ment, hoping  that  Harry  might  act  as  a  guardian  and  adviser  to 
his  waywL-i,rd  young  kinsman;  but  my  young  lord  would  hear  of 
nothing  but  the  Guards,  and  a  commission  was  got  for  him  in  the 
Duke  of  Ormond's  regiment:  so  Esmond  found  my  Lord  ensign 
and  lieutenant  when  he  returned  from  Germany  after  the  Blenheim 
campaign. 

The  effect  produced  by  both  Lady  Castlewood's  children  when 
they  appeared  in  public  was  extraordinary,  and  the  whole  town 
speedily  rang  with  their  fame:  such  a  beautiful  couple,  it  was 
declared,  never  had  been  seen;  the  young  maid  of  honour  was 
toasted  at  every  table  and  tavern,  and  as  for  my  young  lord,  his 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  301 

good  looks  were  even  more  admired  than  his  sister's.  A  hundred 
songs  were  written  about  the  pair,  and  as  the  fashion  of  that  day 
was,  my  young  lord  was  praised  in  these  Anacreontics  as  warmly 
as  Bathyllus,  You  may  be  sure  that  he  accepted  very  com- 
placently the  town's  opinion  of  him,  and  acquiesced  with  that 
frankness  and  charming  good-humour  he  always  showed  in  the  idea 
that  he  was  the  prettiest  fellow  in  all  London. 

The  old  Dowager  at  Chelsey,  though  she  could  never  be  got  to 
acknowledge  that  Mistress  Beatrix  was  any  beauty  at  all  (in  which 
opinion,  as  it  may  be  imagined,  a  vast  number  of  the  ladies  agreed 
with  her),  yet,  on  the  very  first  sight  of  young  Castlewood,  she 
owned  she  fell  in  love  with  him ;  and  Henry  Esmond,  on  his  return 
to  Chelsey,  found  himself  quite  superseded  in  her  favour  by  her 
younger  kinsman.  The  feat  of  drinking  the  King's  health  at  Cam- 
bridge would  have  won  her  heart,  she  said,  if  nothing  else  did. 
*'How  had  the  dear  young  fellow  got  such  beauty?"  she  asked. 
"Not  from  his  father — certainly  not  from  his  mother.  How  had  he 
come  by  such  noble  manners,  and  the  perfect  bel  air?  That  coun- 
trified AVal  cote  widow  could  never  have  taught  him."  Esmond  had 
his  own  opinion  about  the  countrified  Walcote  widow,  who  had  a 
quiet  grace  and  serene  kindness,  that  had  always  seemed  to  him  the 
perfection  of  good  breeding,  though  he  did  not  try  to  argue  this 
point  with  his  aunt.  But  he  could  agree  in  most  of  the  praises 
which  the  enraptured  old  Dowager  bestowed  on  my  Lord  Viscount, 
than  whom  he  never  beheld  a  more  fascinating  and  charming  gen- 
tleman. Castlewood  had  not  wit  so  much  as  enjoyment.  ''The  lad 
looks  good  things, "  Mr.  Steele  used  to  say;  "and  his  laugh  lights 
up  a  conversation  as  much  as  ten  repartees  from  Mr.  Congreve.  I 
would  as  soon  sit  over  a  bottle  with  him  as  with  Mr.  Addison;  and 
rather  listen  to  his  talk  than  hear  Nicolini.  Was  ever  man  so 
gracefully  drunk  as  my  Lord  Castlewood?  I  would  give  anything 
to  carry  my  wine"  (though,  indeed,  Dick  bore  his  very  kindly,  and 
plenty  of  it,  too)  "like  this  incomparable  young  man.  When  he  is 
sober  he  is  delightful;  and  when  tipsy,  perfectly  irresistible."  And 
referring   to   his   favourite,    Shakspeare    (who    was  quite  out    of 


303  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

fashion  until  Steele  brought  him  back  into  the  mode)  Dick  com- 
pared Lord  Castlewood  to  Prince  Hal,  and  was  pleased  to  dub 
Esmond  as  Ancient  Pistol. 

The  Mistress  of  the  Robes,  the  greatest  lady  in  England  after  the 
Queen,  or  even  before  her  Majesty,  as  the  world  said,  though  she 
never  could  be  got  to  say  a  civil  word  to  Beatrix,  whom  she  had 
promoted  to  her  place  as  maid  of  honour,  took  her  brother  into 
instant  favour.  When  young  Castlewood,  in  his  new  uniform,  and 
looking  like  a  prince  out  of  a  fairy  tale,  went  to  pay  his  duty  to  her 
Grace,  she  looked  at  him  for  a  minute  in  silence,  the  young  man 
blushing  and  in  confusion  before  her,  then  fairly  burst  out 
a-crying,  and  kissed  him  before  her  daughters  and  company.  "He 
was  my  boy's  friend,''  she  said,  through  her  sobs.  "M3'  Blandford 
might  have  been  like  him."  And  everybody  saw,  after  this  mark 
of  the  Duchess's  favour,  that  my  young  Lord's  promotion  was 
secure,  and  people  crowded  round  the  favourite's  favourite,  who 
became  vainer  and  gayer,  and  more  good-humoured  than  ever. 

Meanwhile  Madame  Beatrix  was  making  her  conquests  on  her 
own  side,  and  amongst  them  was  one  poor  gentleman,  who  had 
been  shot  by  her  young  eyes  two  years  before,  and  had  never  been 
quite  cured  of  that  wound ;  he  knew,  to  be  sure,  how  hopeless  any 
passion  might  be,  directed  in  that  quarter,  and  had  taken  that  best, 
though  ignoble,  remedium  amoris,  a  speedy  retreat  from  before  the 
charmer  and  a  long  absence  from  her ;  and  not  being  dangerously 
smitten  in  the  first  instance,  Esmond  prettj'  soon  got  the  better  of 
his  complaint,  and  if  he  had  it  still,  did  not  know  he  had  it,  and 
bore  it  easily.  But  when  he  returned  after  Blenheim,  the  young 
lady  of  sixteen,  who  had  appeared  the  most  beautiful  object  his 
eyes  had  ever  looked  on  two  years  back,  was  now  advanced  to  a 
perfect  ripeness  and  perfection  of  beauty,  such  as  instantly 
enthralled  the  poor  devil,  who  had  already  been  a  fugitive  from 
her  charms.  Then  he  had  seen  her  but  for  two  days,  and  fled;  now 
he  beheld  her  day  after  day,  and  when  she  was  at  Court  watched 
after  her ;  when  she  was  at  home,  made  one  of  the  family  party ; 
when  she  went  abroad,  rode  after  her  mother's  chariot;  when  she 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  303 

appeared  in  public  places,  was  in  the  box  near  her,  or  in  the  pit 
looking  at  her ;  when  she  went  to  church  was  sure  to  be  there, 
though  he  might  not  listen  to  the  sermon,  and  be  ready  to  hand  her 
to  her  chair,  if  she  deigned  to  accept  of  his  services,  and  select  him 
from  a  score  of  young  men  who  vrere  always  hanging  round  about 
her.  When  she  went  away,  accompanying  her  Majesty  to  Hampton 
Court,  a  darkness  fell  over  London.  Gods,  what  nights  has  Esmond 
passed,  thinking  of  her,  rhyming  about  her,  talking  about  her! 
His  friend  Dick  Steele  was  at  this  time  courting  the  young  lady, 
Mrs.  Scurlock,  whom  he  married;  she  had  a  lodging  in  Kensington 
Square,  hard  by  my  Lady  Castlewood's  house  there.  Dick  and 
Harry,  being  on  the  same  errand,  used  to  meet  constantly  at  Ken- 
sington. They  were  always  prowling  about  that  place,  or  dismally 
walking  thence,  or  eagerly  running  thither.  They  emptied  scores 
of  bottles  at  the  "King's  Arms,"  each  man  prating  of  his  love,  and 
allowing  the  other  to  talk  on  condition  that  he  might  have  his  own 
turn  as  a  listener.  Hence  arose  an  intimacy  between  them,  though 
to  all  the  rest  of  their  friends  they  must  have  been  insufferable. 
Esmond's  verses  to  "Gloriana  at  the  Harpsichord,"  to  "Gloriana's 
Nosegay,"  to  "Gloriana  at  Court,"  appeared  this  year  in  the 
Observator. — Have  you  never  read  them?  They  were  thought 
pretty  poems,  and  attributed  by  some  to  Mr.  Prior. 

This  passion  did  not  escape— how  should  it?— the  clear  eyes  of 
Esmond's  mistress:  he  told  her  all;  what  will  a  man  not  do  when 
frantic  with  love?  To  what  baseness  will  he  not  demean  himself? 
What  pangs  will  he  not  make  others  suffer,  so  that  he  may  ease  his 
selfish  heart  of  a  part  of  its  own  pain?  Day  after  da^^  he  would 
seek  his  dear  mistress,  pour  insane  hopes,  supplications,  rhapsodies, 
raptures,  into  her  ear.  She  listened,  smiled,  consoled,  with  untir- 
ing pity  and  sweetness.  Esmond  was  the  eldest  of  her  children,  .so 
she  was  pleased  to  say ;  and  as  for  her  kindness,  who  ever  had  or 
would  look  for  aught  else  from  one  who  was  an  angel  of  goodness 
and  pity?  After  what  has  been  said,  'tis  needless  almost  to  add 
that  poor  Esmond's  suit  was  unsuccessful.  What  was  a  nameless, 
penniless  lieutenant  to  do,  when  some  of  the  greatest  in  the  land 


;j04  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

were  in  the  field?  Esmond  never  so  much  as  thought  of  asking 
permission  to  hope  so  far  above  his  reach  as  he  knew  this  prize  was 
— and  passed  his  foolish,  useless  life  in  niere  abject  sighs  ^nd 
impotent  longing.  What  nights  of  rage,  what  ds,js  of  torment,  of 
passionate  unfulfilled  desire,  of  sickening  jealousy  can  he  recall! 
Beatrix  thought  no  more  of  him  than  of  the  lacquey  that  followed 
her  chair.  His  complaints  did  not  touch  her  in  the  least ;  his  rap- 
tures rather  fatigued  her;  she  cared  for  his  verses  no  more  than  for 
Dan  Chaucer's,  who's  dead  these  ever  so  many  hundred  years;  she 
did  not  Jiate  him ;  she  rather  despised  him,  and  just  suffered  him. 

One  day,  after  talking  to  Beatrix's  mother,  his  dear,  fond,  con- 
stant mistress — for  hours  —for  all  day  long — pouring  out  his  flame 
and  his  passion,  his  despair  and  rage,  returning  again  and  again  to 
the  theme,  pacing  the  room,  tearing  up  the  flowers  on  the  table, 
twisting  and  breaking  into  bits  the  wax  out  of  the  stand-dish,  and 
performing  a  hundred  mad  freaks  of  passionate  folly ;  seeing  his 
mistress  at  last  quite  pale  and  tired  out  with  sheer  weariness  of 
compassion,  and  watching  over  his  fever  for  the  hundredth  time, 
Esmond  seized  up  his  hat  and  took  his  leave.  As  he  got  into  Ken- 
sington Square,  a  sense  of  remorse  came  over  him  for  the  w^eari- 
some  pain  he  had  been  inflicting  upon  the  dearest  and  kindest 
friend  ever  man  had.  He  went  back  to  the  house,  where  the 
servant  still  stood  at  the  open  door,  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  found  his 
mistress  where  he  had  left  her  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window, 
looking  over  the  fields  towards  Chelsey.  She  laughed,  wiping  away 
at  the  same  time  tlie  tears  which  were  in  her  kind  eyes;  he  flung 
himself  down  on  his  knees,  and  buried  his  head  in  her  lap.  She 
[]  i  had  in  her  hand  the  stalk  of  one  of  the  flowers,  a  pink,  that  he  had 
'  torn  to  pieces.  "Oh,  pardon  me,  pardon  me,  my  dearest  and 
kindest,"  he  said;  "I  am  in  hell,  and  you  are  the  angel  that  brings 
me  a  drop  of  water." 

"I  am  your  mother,  you  are  my  son,  and  I  love  you  always,"  she 
said,  holding  her  hands  over  him:  and  he  went  away  comforted 
and  humbled  in  mind,  as  he  thought  of  that  amazing  and  constant 
love  and  tenderness  with  wiiich  this  sweet  lady  ever  blessed  and 
pursued  him. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   FAMOUS   MR.    JOSEPH    ADDISON 

The  gentlemen-usliers  had  a  table  at  Kensington  and  the  Guard 
a  very  splendid  dinner  daily  at  St.  James's,  at  either  of  which 
ordinaries  Esmond  was  free  to  dine.  Dick  Steele  liked  the  Guard- 
table  better  than  his  own  at  the  gentlemen-ushers',  where  there 
was  less  wine  and  more  ceremony;  and  Esmond  had  many  a  jolly 
afternoon  in  company  of  his  friend,  and  a  hundred  times  at  least 
saw  Dick  into  his  chair.  If  there  is  verity  in  wine,  according  to 
the  old  adage,  what  an  amiable-natured  character  Dick's  must  have 
been !  In  proportion  as  he  took  in  wine  he  overflowed  with  kind- 
ness. His  talk  was  not  witty  so  much  as  charming.  He  never  said 
a  word  that  could  anger  anybody,  and  only  became  the  more  benev- 
olent the  more  tipsy  he  grew.  Many  of  the  wags  derided  the  poor 
fellow  in  his  cups,  and  chose  him  as  a  butt  for  their  satire:  but 
there  w^as  a  kindness  about  him,  and  a  sweet  playful  fancy,  that 
seemed  to  Esmond  far  more  charming  than  the  pointed  talk  of  the 
brightest  wits  with  their  elaborate  repartees  and  affected  severities. 
I  think  Steele  shone  rather  than  sparkled.  Those  famous  heaux- 
esprHts  of  the  coffee-houses  (Mr.  William  Congreve,  for  instance, 
wdien  his  gout  and  his  grandeur  permitted  him  to  come  among  us) 
would  make  many  brilliant  hits  —  half-a-dozen  in  a  night  some- 
times— but,  like  sharpshooters,  when  they  had  fired  their  shot,  they 
were  obliged  to  retire  under  cover  till  their  pieces  were  loaded 
again,  and  wait  till  they  got  another  chance  at  their  enemy; 
whereas  Dick  never  thought  that  his  bottle  companion  was  a  butt 
to  aim  at — only  a  friend  to  shake  by  the  hand.  The  poor  fellow 
had  half  the  town  in  his  confidence ;  everybody  knew  everything 
about  his  loves  and  his  debts,  his  creditors  or  his  mistress's  obdu- 
racy. When  Esmond  first  came  on  to  the  town,  honest  Dick  was 
all  flames  and  raptures  for  a  young  lady,  a  West  India  fortune, 
whom  he  married.     In  a  couple  of  years  the  lady  was  dead,  the 

305 


306  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

fortune  was  all  but  spent,  and  the  honest  widower  was  as  eager  in 
pursuit  of  a  new  paragon  of  beauty  as  if  he  had  never  courted  and 
married  and  buried  the  last  one. 

Quitting  the  Guard-table  one  Sunday  afteinoon,  when  by  chance 
Dick  had  a  sober  fit  upon  him,  he  and  his  friend  were  making  their 
way  down  Germain  Street,  and  Dick  all  of  a  sudden  left  his  com- 
panion's arm,  and  ran  after  a  gentleman  who  was  poring  over  a 
folio  volume  at  the  book-shop  near  to  St.  James's  Church.  He  was 
a  fair,  tall  man,  in  a  snuff-coloured  suit,  with  a  plain  sword,  very 
sober  and  almost  shabby  in  appearance — at  least  when  compared  to 
Captain  Steele,  who  loved  to  adorn  his  jolly  round  person  with  the 
finest  of  clothes,  and  shone  in  scarlet  and  gold  lace.  The  Captain 
rushed  up,  then,  to  the  student  of  the  book-stall,  took  him  in  his 
arms,  hugged  him,  and  would  have  kissed  him — for  Dick  was 
always  hugging  and  bussing  his  friends — but  the  other  stepped  back 
with  a  flush  on  his  pale  face,  seeming  to  decline  this  public  mani- 
festation of  Steele's  regard. 

My  dearest  Joe,  Avhere  hast  thou  hidden  thyself  this  age?"  cries 
the  Captain,  still  holding  both  his  friend's  hands;  "I  have  been 
languishing  for  thee  this  fortnight." 

"A  fortnight  is  not  an  age,  Dick,"  says  the  other,  very  good- 
humouredly.  (He  had  light-blue  eyes,  extraordinary  bright,  and  a 
face  perfectly  regular  and  handsome,  like  a  tinted  statue.)  "And 
I  have  been  hiding  myself — where  do  you  think?" 

"What!  not  across  the  water,  my  dear  Joe?"  says  Steele,  with  a 
look  of  great  alarm:  "thou  knowest  I  have  always " 

"No,"  says  his  friend,  interrupting  him  with  a  smile:  "we  are 
not  come  to  such  straits  as  that,  Dick.  I  have  been  hiding,  sir,  at 
a  place  where  people  never  think  of  finding  you — at  my  own  lodg- 
ings, whither  I  am  going  to  smoke  a  pipe  now  and  drink  a  glass  of 
sack:  will  j^our  honour  come?" 

'Harry  Esmond,  come  hither,"  cries  out  Dick.  "Thou  hast 
heard  me  talk  over  and  over  again  of  my  dearest  Joe,  my  guardian 
angel?" 

"Indeed,"  says  Mr.  Esmond,  with  a  bow,  "it  is  not  from  you 


THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  307 

only  that  I  have  learnt  to  admire  Mr.  Addison.  We  loved  good 
poetry  at  Cambridge  as  well  as  at  Oxford;  and  I  have  some  of 
yours  by  heart,  though  I  have  put  on  a  red  coat.  .  .  .  'O  qui  canoro 
blandius  Orpheo  vocale  ducis  oarmen;'  shall  I  go  on,  sir?"  says  Mr. 
Esmond,  who,  indeed,  had  read  and  loved  the  charming  Latin 
poems  of  Mr.  Addison,  as  every  scholar  of  that  time  knew  and 
admired  them. 

"This  is  Captain  Esmond  who  was  at  Blenheim,"  says  Steele. 

"Lieutenant  Esmond,"  says  the  other,  with  a  low  bow,  "at  Mr. 
Addison's  service." 

"I  have  heard  of  you,"  says  Mr.  Addison,  with  a  smile;  as, 
indeed,  everybody  about  town  had  heard  that  unlucky  story  about 
Esmond's  dowager  aunt  and  the  Duchess. 

"We  were  going  to  the  'George'  to  take  a  bottle  before  the 
play,"  says  Steele:  "wilt  thou  be  one,  Joe?" 

Mr.  Addison  said  his  own  lodgings  were  hard  by,  where  he  was 
still  rich  enough  to  give  a  good  bottle  of  wine  to  his  friends;  and 
invited  the  two  gentlemen  to  his  apartment  in  the  Haymarket, 
whither  we  accordingly  went. 

"I  shall  get  credit  with  my  landlady,"  says  he,  with  a  smile, 
"when  she  sees  two  such  fine  gentlemen  as  you  come  up  my  stair." 
And  he  politely  made  his  visitors  welcome  to  his  apartment,  which 
was  indeed  but  a  shabby  one,  though  no  grandee  of  the  land  could 
receive  his  guests  with  a  more  perfect  and  courtly  grace  than  this 
gentleman.  A  frugal  dinner,  consisting  of  a  slice  of  meat  and  a 
penny  loaf,  was  awaiting  the  owner  of  the  lodgings.  "My  wine  is 
better  than  my  meat,"  says  Mr.  Addison;  "my  Lord  Halifax  sent 
me  the  burgundy."  And  he  set  a  bottle  and  glasses  before  his 
fnends,  and  ate  his  simple  dinner  in  a  very  few  minutes,  after 
which  the  three  fell  to  and  began  to  drink.  "You  see,"  says  Mr. 
Addison,  pointing  to  his  v»'riting-table,  whereon  was  a  map  of  the 
action  at  Hochstedt,  and  several  other  gazettes  and  pamphlets 
relating  to  the  battle,  "that  I,  too,  am  busy  about  your  affairs.  Cap- 
tain.  I  am  engaged  as  a  poetical  gazetteer,  to  say  truth,  and  anj 
writing  a  poem  on  the  campaign." 


308  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

So  Esmond,  at  the  request  of  his  host,  told  him  what  he  knew 
about  the  famous  battle,  drew  the  river  on  the  table  aliquo  mero, 
and  with  the  aid  of  some  bits  of  tobacco-pipe  showed  the  advance 
of  the  left  wing,  where  he  had  been  engaged. 

A  sheet  or  two  of  the  verses  lay  already  on  the  table  beside  our 
bottles  and  glasses,  and  Dick  having  plentifully  refreshed  himself 
from  the  latter,  took  up  the  pages  of  manuscript,  writ  out  with 
scarce  a  blot  or  correction,  in  the  author's  slim,  neat  handwriting, 
and  began  to  read  therefrom  with  great  emphasis  and  volubility. 
At  pauses  of  the  verse,  the  enthusiastic  reader  stopped  and  fired  off 
a  great  salvo  of  applause. 

Esmond  smiled  at  the  enthusiasm  of  Addison's  friend.  "You 
are  like  the  German  Burghers,"  says  he,  "and  the  Princes  on  the 
Mozelle :  when  our  army  came  to  a  halt,  they  always  sent  a  deputa- 
tion to  compliment  the  chief,  and  fired  a  salute  with  all  their  artil- 
lery from  their  walls." 

"And  drunk  the  great  chief's  health  afterward,  did  not  they?'' 
says  Captain  Steele,  gaily  filling  up  a  bumper; — he  never  was  tardy 
at  that  sort  of  acknowledgment  of  a  friend's  merit. 

"And  the  Duke,  since  you  will  have  me  act  his  Grace's  part," 
says  Mr.  Addison,  with  a  smile,  and  something  of  a  blush,  "pledged 
his  friends  in  return.  Most  Serene  Elector  of  Covent  Garden,  I 
drink  to  your  Highness's  health,''  and  he  filled  himself  a  glass. 
Joseph  required  scarce  more  pressing  than  Dick  to  that  sort  of 
amusement;  but  the  wine  never  seemed  at  all  to  fluster  Mr.  Addi- 
son's brains;  it  only  unloosed  his  tongue:  whereas  Captain  Steele's 
head  and  speech  were  quite  overcome  by  a  single  bottle. 

No  matter  what  the  verses  were,  and,  to  say  trutli,  Mr.  Esmond 
found  some  of  them  more  than  indifferent,  Dick's  enthusiasm  for 
his  chief  never  faltered,  and  in  every  line  from  Addison's  pen 
Steele  found  a  master-stroke.  By  the  time  Dick  had  come  to  tliat 
part  of  the  poem  wherein  the  bard  describes  as  blandly  as  though 
he  were  recording  a  dance  at  the  opera,  or  a  harmless  bout  of 
bucolic  cudgelling  at  a  village  fair,  that  bloody  and  ruthless  part  of 
our  campaign,  with  the  remembrance  whereof  exevy  soldier  who 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  309 

bore  a  part  in  it  must  sicken  with  shame— when  we  were  ordered  to 
ravage  and  lay  waste  the  Elector's  country;  and  w^ith  fire  and 
murder,  slaughter  and  crime,  a  great  part  of  his  dominions  was 
overrun ; — when  Dick  came  to  the  lines — 

"In  vengeance  ronsed  the  soldier  fills  his  hand 
With  sword  and  fire,  and  ravages  the  land. 
In  crackling  flames  a  thousand  harvests  burn, 
A  thousand  villages  to  ashes  turn. 
To  the  thick  woods  the  woolly  flocks  retreat. 
And  mixed  with  bellowing  herds  confusedly  bleat. 
Their  trembling  lords  the  common  shade  partake, 
And  cries  of  infants  sound  in  every  brake. 
The  listening  soldier  fixed  in  sorrow  stands. 
Loth  to  obey  his  leader's  just  commands. 
The  leader  grieves,  by  generous  pity  swayed, 
To  see  his  just  commands  so  well  obeyed;"— 

by  this  time  wine  and  friendship  had  brought  poor  Dick  to  a  per- 
fectly maudlin  state,  and  he  hiccupped  out  the  last  line  with  a 
tenderness  that  set  one  of  his  auditors  a-laughing. 

"I  admire  the  licence  of  your  poets,"  says  Esmond  to  Mr.  Addi- 
son. (Dick,  after  reading  of  the  verses,  was  fain  to  go  off,  insisting 
on  kissing  his  two  dear  friends  before  his  departure,  and  reeling 
away  with  his  periwig  over  his  eyes.)  "I  admire  your  art;  the 
murder  of  the  campaign  is  done  to  military  music,  like  a  battle  at 
the  opera,  and  the  virgins  shriek  in  harmony  as  our  victorious 
grenadiers  march  into  their  villages.  Do  3'ou  know  what  a  scene  it 
wasf — (by  this  time,  perhaps,  the  wine  had  warmed  Mr.  Esmond's 
head  too) — "what  a  triumph  you  are  celebrating?  what  scenes  of 
sliaine  and  horror  were  enacted,  over  which  the  commander's 
genius  presided,  as  calm  as  though  he  didn't  belong  to  our  sphere? 
You  talk  of  the  'listening  soldier  fixed  in  sorrow,'  the  'leader's | 
grief  swayed  by  generous  pity :' to  my  belief  the  leader  cared  no 
more  for  bleating  flocks  than  he  did  for  infants'  cries,  and  many  ofi 
our  ruflians  butchered  one  or  the  otlier  with  equal  alacrity.  I  was 
ashamed  of  my  trade  when  I  saw  those  horrors  perpetrated  which 
came  under  every  man's  eyes.  You  hew  out  of  your  i^olished 
verses  a  stately  image  of  smiling  victory  I  tell  yovi  'tis  an  uncouth, 
distorted,  savage  idol;  hideous,  bloody,  and  barbarous.     The  rites 


310  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

performed  before  it  are  shocking  to  think  of.  Y'ou  great  poets 
should  sliow  it  as  it  is — ugly  and  horrible,  not  beautiful  and  serene. 
O  sir,  had  you  made  the  campaign,  believe  me,  you  never  would 
have  sung  it  so." 

During  this  little  outbreak,  Mr.  Addison  was  listening,  smoking 
out  of  his  long  pipe,  and  smiling  very  placidly.  "What  would  you 
have?"'  says  he.  "In  our  polished  days,  and  according  to  the  rules 
of  art,  'tis  impossible  that  the  Muse  should  depict  tortures  or 
begrime  her  hands  with  the  horrors  of  war.  These  are  indicated 
rather  than  described ;  as  in  the  Greek  tragedies,  that,  I  dare  say, 
you  have  read  (and  sure  there  can  be  no  more  elegant  specimens  of 
composition),  Agamemnon  is  slain,  or  Medea's  children  destroyed, 
away  from  the  scene ; — the  chorus  occupying  the  stage  and  singing 
of  the  action  to  pathetic  music.  Something  of  this  I  attempt,  my 
dear  sir,  in  my  humble  way :  'tis  a  panegyric  I  mean  to  write  and 
not  a  satire.  Were  I  to  sing  as  you  would  have  me,  the  town 
would  tear  the  poet  in  pieces,  and  burn  his  book  by  the  hands  of 
the  common  hangman.  Do  you  not  use  tobacco?  Of  all  the  weeds 
grown  on  earth,  sure  the  nicotian  is  the  most  soothing  and  salutary. 
We  must  paint  our  great  Duke,"  Mr.  Addison  went  on,  "not  as  a 
man,  which  no  doubt  he  is,  with  weaknesses  like  the  rest  of  us,  but 
as  a  hero.  'Tis  in  a  triumph,  not  a  battle,  that  your  humble  servant 
is  riding  his  sleek  Pegasus,  We  college  poets  trot,  you  know,  on 
very  easy  nags;  it  hath  been,  time  out  of  mind,  part  of  the  poet's 
profession  to  celebrate  the  actions  of  heroes  in  verse,  and  to  sing 
the  deeds  which  you  men  of  war  perform,  I  must  follow  the  rules 
of  my  art,  and  the  composition  of  such  a  strain  as  this  must  be 
harmonious  and  majestic,  not  familiar,  or  too  near  the  vulgar 
truth.  Si  parva  licet:  if  Virgil  could  invoke  the  divine  Augustus, 
a  humbler  poet  from  the  banks  of  the  Isis  may  celebrate  a  victory 
and  a  conqueror  of  our  own  nation,  in  whose  triumphs  every  Briton 
has  a  share,  and  whose  glory  and  genius  contributes  to  every  citi- 
zen's individual  honour.  When  hath  there  been,  since  our  Henrys* 
and  Edwards'  days,  such  a  great  feat  of  arms  as  that  from  which 
you  vourself  have  brought  away  marks  of  distinction?    If  'tis  in 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  311 

my  power  to  sing  that  song  worthily,  I  will  do  so,  and  be  thankful 

to  my  Muse.     If  I  fail  as  a  poet,  as  a  Briton  at  least  I  will  show  my 

loyalty,  and  fling  up  my  cap  and  huzzah  for  the  conqueror; 

*"  .  .  .  Rheni  pacator  et  Istri, 
Omnis  in  hoc  uno  variis  discordia  cessit 
di-clinibus;  lastatur  eques,  plauditque  senator, 
Votaque  patricio  certant  plebeia  favori.'  " 

"There  were  as  brave  men  on  that  field,"  says  Mr.  Esmond  (who 
never  could  be  made  to  love  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  nor  to  forget 
those  stories  which  he  used  to  hear  in  his  youth  regarding  that 
great  chief's  selfishness  and  treachery) — "There  were  men  at 
Blenheim  as  good  as  the  leader,  whom  neither  knights  nor  senators 
applauded,  nor  voices  plebeian  or  patrician  favoured,  and  who  lie 
there  forgotten,  under  tlie  clods.  What  poet  is  thereto  sing  them?" 

"To  sing  the  gallant  souls  of  heroes  sent  to  Hades!"  says  Mr. 
Addison,  with  a  smile.  "Would  you  celebrate  them  all?  If  I  may 
venture  to  question  anything  in  such  an  admirable  work,  the  cata- 
logue of  the  ships  in  Homer  hath  always  appeared  to  me  as  some- 
what wearisome:  what  had  the  poem  been,  supposing  the  writer 
had  chronicled  the  names  of  captains,  lieutenants,  rank  and  file?  One 
of  the  greatest  of  a  great  man's  qualities  is  success ;  'tis  the  result 
of  all  the  others ;  'tis  a  latent  power  in  him  which  compels  the 
favour  of  the  gods,  and  subjugates  fortune.  Of  all  his  gifts  I 
admire  that  one  in  the  great  Marlborough.  To  be  brave?  every 
man  is  brave.  But  in  being  victorious,  as  he  is,  I  fancy  tliere  is 
something  divine.  In  presence  of  the  occasion,  the  great  soul  of 
the  leader  shines  out,  and  the  god  is  confessed.  Death  itself 
respects  him,  and  passes  by  him  to  lay  others  low.  War  and  car- 
nage flee  before  him  to  ravage  other  parts  of  the  field,  as  Hector 
from  before  the  divine  Achilles.  You  say  he  hath  no  pity :  no  more 
have  the  gods,  who  are  above  it,  and  superhuman.  The  fainting 
battle  gathers  strength  at  his  aspect ;  and,  wherever  he  rides,  vic- 
tory charges  with  him." 

A  couple  of  days  after,  when  Mr.  Esmond  revisited  his  poetic 
friend,  he  found  this  thought,  struck  out  in  the  fervour  of  conver- 
sation, improved  and  shaped  into  those  famous  lines,  which  are  in 


312  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

truth  the  noblest  in  the  poem  of  the  "Campaign."  As  the  two 
gentlemen  sat  engaged  in  talk,  Mr.  Addison  solacing  himself  with 
his  customary  pipe,  the  little  maid-servant  that  waited  on  his  lodg- 
ing came  up,  preceding  a  gentleman  in  fine  laced  clothes,  that  had 
evidently  been  figuring  at  Court  or  a  great  man's  levee.  The 
courtier  coughed  a  little  at  the  smoke  of  the  pipe,  and  looked  round 
the  room  curiously,  which  was  sliabby  enough,  as  was  the  owner  in 
his  worn  snuff-coloured  suit  and  plain  tie-wig. 

"How  goes  on  the  magnum  opus,  Mr.  Addison?"  says  the  Court 
gentleman  on  looking  down  at  the  papers  that  were  on  tlie  table. 

"We  were  but  now  over  it,"  says  Addison  (the  greatest  courtier 
in  the  land  could  not  have  a  more  splendid  politeness,  or  greater 
dignity  of  manner).  "Here  is  the  plan,"  says  he,  "on  the  table: 
hac  ibat  Simois,  here  ran  the  little  river  Nebel:  hie  est  Sigeia 
tellus,  here  are  Tallard's  quarters,  at  the  bowl  of  this  pipe,  at  the 
attack  of  which  Captain  Esmond  was  present.  I  have  the  honour 
to  introduce  him  to  Mr.  Boyle;  and  Mr.  Esmond  was  but  now 
depicting  aliquo  proelia  mixta  mero,  when  you  came  in."  In 
truth,  the  two  gentlemen  had  been  so  engaged  when  the  visitor 
arrived,  and  Addison  in  his  smiling  way,  speaking  of  Mr.  Webb, 
colonel  of  Esmond's  regiment  (who  commanded  a  brigade  in  the 
action,  and  greatly  distinguished  himself  there),  was  lamenting 
that  he  could  find  never  a  suitable  rhyme  for  Webb,  otherwise  the 
brigade  should  have  had  a  place  in  the  poet's  verses.  "And  for 
you,  you  are  but  a  lieutenant,"  says  Addison,  "and  the  Muse  can't 
occupy  herself  with  any  gentleman  under  the  rank  of  a  field 
officer." 

Mr,  Boyle  was  all  impatient  to  hear,  saying  that  my  Lord 
Treasurer  and  my  Lord  Halifax  were  equally  anxious;  and 
Addison,  blushing,  began  reading  of  his  A'erses,  and,  I  suspect, 
knew  their  weak  parts  as  well  as  the  most  critical  hearer.  When 
he  came  to  the  lines  describing  the  angel,  that 

"  Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage, 
And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to  rage, 

he  read  with  great  animation,  looking  at  Esmond,  as  much  as  to 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  313 

say,  "You  know  where  that  simile  came  from — from  our  talk,  and 
our  bottle  of  burgundy,  the  other  day." 

The  poet's  two  hearers  were  caught  with  enthusiasm,  and 
applauded  the  verses  with  all  their  might.  The  gentleman  of  the 
Court  sprang  up  in  great  delight.  "Not  a  w^ord  more,  my  dear  sir, '' 
says  he.  "Trust  me  with  the  papers — 1*11  defend  them  with  my 
life.  Let  me  read  them  over  to  my  Lord  Treasurer,  whom  I  am 
appointed  to  see  in  half-an-hour.  I  venture  to  promise,  the  verses 
shall  lose  nothing  by  my  reading,  and  then,  sir,  we  shall  see 
whether  Lord  Halifax  has  a  right  to  complain  that  his  friend's  pen- 
sion is  no  longer  paid."  And  without  more  ado,  the  courtier  in 
lace  seized  the  manuscript  j)ages,  placed  them  in  his  breast  with 
his  ruffled  hand  over  his  heart,  executed  a  most  gracious  wave  of 
the  hat  with  the  disengaged  hand,  and  smiled  and  bowed  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  an  odour  of  pomander  behind  him. 

"Does  not  the  chamber  look  quite  dark?"  says  Addison,  survey- 
ing it,  "after  the  glorious  appearance  and  disappearance  of  that 
gracious  messenger?  Why,  he  illuminated  the  whole  room.  Your 
scarlet,  Mr.  Esmond,  will  bear  any  light;  but  this  threadbare  old. 
coat  of  mine,  how  very  worn  it  looked  under  the  glare  of  that 
splendour!  I  wonder  whether  they  will  do  anything  for  me,"  he 
continued.  "When  I  came  out  of  Oxford  into  the  world,  my 
patrons  promised  me  great  things;  and  you  see  where  their  ijrom- 
ises  have  landed  me,  in  a  lodging  up  two  pair  of  stairs,  with  a  six- 
penny dinner  from  the  cook's  shop.  Well,  I  suppose  this  promise 
will  go  after  the  others,  and  Fortune  will  jilt  me,  as  the  jade  has 
been  doing  any  time  these  seven  years.  'I  puff  the  prostitute 
away,'  "  says  he,  smiling,  and  blowing  a  cloud  out  of  his  pipe. 
"There  is  no  hardship  in  poverty,  Esmond,  that  is  not  bearable;  no 
hardship  even  in  honest  dependence  that  an  honest  man  may  not 
put  up  with.  I  came  out  of  the  lap  of  Alma  Mater,  puffed  up  with 
her  praises  of  me,  and  thinking  to  make  a  figure  in  the  world  with 
the  parts  and  learning  wdiich  had  got  me  no  small  name  in  our  col- 
lege. The  world  is  the  ocean,  and  Isis  and  Charwell  are  but  little 
dropsj  of  which  the  sea  takes  no  account.     My  reputation  ended  a 


314  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

mile  beyond  Maudlin  Tower ;  no  one  took  note  of  me ;  and  I  learned 
this  at  least,  to  bear  up  against  evil  fortune  with  a  cheerful  heart. 
Friend  Dick  hath  made  a  figure  in  the  world,  and  has  passed  me  in 
the  race  long  ago.  What  matters  a  little  name  or  a  little  fortune? 
There  is  no  fortune  that  a  philosopher  cannot  endure.  I  have  been 
not  unknown  as  a  scholar,  and  yet  forced  to  live  by  turning  bear- 
leader, and  teaching  a  boy  to  spell.  What  then?  The  life  was  not 
pleasant,  but  possible — the  bear  was  bearable.  Should  this  venture 
fail,  I  will  go  back  to  Oxford;  and  some  day,  when  you  are  a  gen- 
eral, you  shall  find  me  a  curate  in  a  cassock  and  bands,  and  I  shall 
welcome  your  honour  to  my  cottage  in  the  country,  and  to  a,  mug 
of  penny  ale.  'Tis  not  poverty  that's  the  hardest  to  bear,  or  the 
least  happy  lot  in  life,"  says  Mr.  Addison,  shaking  the  ash  out  of 
his  pipe.  "See,  my  pipe  is  smoked  out.  Shall  we  have  anotlier 
bottle?  I  have  still  a  couple  in  the  cupboard,  and  of  the  right  sort. 
No  more?  Let  us  go  abroad  and  take  a  turn  on  the  Mall,  or  look  in 
at  the  theatre  and  see  Dick's  comedy.  'Tis  not  a  masterpiece  of 
wit;  but  Dick  is  a  good  fellow,  though  he  doth  not  set  the  Thames 
on  fire." 

Within  a  month  after  this  day,  Mr.  Addison's  ticket  had  come 
up  a  prodigious  prize  in  the  lottery  of  life.  All  the  town  was  in  an 
uproar  of  admiration  of  his  poem,  the  "Campaign,"  which  Dick 
Steele  was  spouting  at  every  coffee-house  in  Whitehall  and  Covent 
Garden.  The  wits  on  the  other  side  of  Temple  Bar  saluted  him  at 
once  as  the  greatest  poet  the  world  had  seen  for  ages;  the  people 
liuzzahed  for  Marlborough  and  for  Addison,  and,  more  than  this, 
the  party  in  power  provided  for  the  meritorious  poet,  and  Mr. 
Addison  got  the  appointment  of  Commissioner  of  Excise,  which 
the  famous  Mr.  Locke  vacated,  and  rose  from  this  place  to  other 
dignities  and  honours;  his  prosperity  from  henceforth  to  the  end  of 
his  life  being  scarce  ever  interrupted.  But  I  doubt  whether  he  was 
not  happier  in  his  garret  in  the  Haymarket,  than  ever  he  was  in  his 
splendid  palace  at  Kensington;  and  I  believe  the  fortune  that  came 
to  liim  in  the  shape  of  the  countess  his  v.dfe,  was  no  better  than  a 
slirew  and  a  vixen. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  315 

Gay  as  the  town  was,  'twas  but  a  dreary  place  for  Mr.  Esmond, 
whether  his  charmer  was  in  or  out  of  it,  and  he  was  glad  when  his 
General  gave  him  notice  that  he  was  going  back  to  his  division  of 

i  the  army  which  lay  in  winter  quarters  at  Bois-le-Duc.      His  dear 

'      .  .  •  "        . 

mistress  bade  him  farewell  with  a  cheerful  face;  her  blessing  he 

i  knew  he  had  always,  and  w^heresoever  fate  carried  him.  Mistress 
I  Beatrix  was  away  in  attendance  on  her  Majesty  at  Hampton  Court, 
and  kissed  her  fair  finger-tips  to  him,  by  w^ay  of  adieu,  when  he 
rode  thither  to  take  his  leave.  She  received  her  kinsman  in  a  wait- 
ing-room where  there  were  half-a-dozen  more  ladies  of  the  Court, 
so  that  his  high-fiown  speeches,  had  he  intended  to  make  any  (and 
very  likely  he  did),  were  impossible;  and  she  announced  to  her 
friends  that  her  cousin  was  going  to  the  army,  in  as  easy  a  manner 
as  she  would  have  said  he  was  going  to  a  chocolate  house.  He 
asked  with  a  rather  rueful  face  if  she  had  any  orders  for  the  army? 
and  she  was  pleased  to  say  that  she  would  like  a  mantle  of  Mechlin 
lace.  She  made  him  a  saucy  curtsey  in  reply  to  his  own  dismal 
bow.  She  deigned  to  kiss  her  finger-tips  from  the  window,  where 
she  stood  laughing  with  the  other  ladies,  and  chanced  to  see  him  as 
he  made  his  way  to  the  "Toy."  The  Dowager  at  Chelsey  was  not 
sorry  to  part  with  him  this  time.  "Mon  cher,  vous  etes  triste 
comme  un  sermon,"  she  did  him  the  honour  to  say  to  him;  indeed, 
gentlemen  in  his  condition  are  by  no  means  amusing  companions, 
and  besides,  the  fickle  old  woman  had  now  found  a  much  more 
amiable  favourite,  and  raffoUd  for  her  darling  lieutenant  of  the 
Guard.  Frank  remained  behind  for  a  while,  and  did  not  join  the 
army  till  later,  in  the  suite  of  his  Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief. 
His  dear  mother,  on  the  last  day  before  Esmond  went  away,  and 
when  the  three  dined  together,  made  Esmond  promise  to  befriend 
her  boy,  and  besought  Frank  to  take  the  example  of  his  kinsman 
as  of  a  loyal  gentleman  and  brave  soldier,  so  she  was  pleased  to 
say;  and  at  parting,  betrayed  not  the  least  sign  of  faltering  or 
weakness,  though,  God  knows,  that  fond  heart  was  fearful  enough 
when  others  were  concerned,  though  so  resolute  in  bearing  its  own 
pain. 


816  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Esmond's  General  embarked  at  Harwich.  'Twas  a  grand  sight 
to  see  Mr,  Webb  dressed  in  scarlet  on  the  deck,  waving  his  hat  as 
our  yacht  put  off,  and  the  guns  saluted  from  the  shore.  Harry  did 
not  see  his  Viscount  again,  until  three  months  after,  at  Bois-le-Duc, 
when  his  Grace  the  Duke  came  to  take  command,  and  Frank 
brought  a  budget  of  news  from  home :  how  he  had  supped  with 
this  actress,  and  got  tired  of  that;  how  he  had  got  the  better  of 
Mr.  St.  John,  both  over  the  bottle,  and  with  Mrs.  Mountford,  of  the 
Hay  market  Theatre  (a  veteran  charmer  of  fifty,  with  whom  the 
young  scapegrace  chose  to  fancy  himself  in  love) ;  how  his  sister 
was  always  at  her  tricks,  and  had  jilted  a  young  baron  for  an  old 
earl.  "I  can't  make  out  Beatrix,"  he  said;  "she  cares  for  none  of 
us — she  only  thinks  about  herself;  she  is  never  happy  unless  she  is 
quarrelling;  but  as  for  my  mother — my  mother,  Harry,  is  an  angel." 
Harry  tried  to  impress  on  the  young  fellow  the  necessity  of  doing 
everything  in  his  power  to  please  that  angel:  not  to  drink  too 
much ;  not  to  go  into  debt ;  not  to  run  after  the  pretty  Flemish 
girls,  and  so  forth,  as  became  a  senior  speaking  to  a  lad.  "But 
Lord  bless  thee!"  the  boy  said;  "I  may  do  what  I  like,  and  I  know 
she  will  love  me  all  the  same;"  and  so,  indeed,  he  did  what  he 
liked.  Everybody  spoiled  him,  and  his  grave  kinsman  as  much  as 
the  rest. 


CHAPTER  XII 

I   GET   A  COMPANY   IN   THE   CAMPAIGN   OF   1706 

On  Whit  Sunday,  the  famous  23rd  of  May  1706,  my  young  lord 
first  came  under  the  fire  of  the  enemy,  whom  we  found  posted  in 
order  of  battle,  their  lines  extending  three  miles  or  more,  over  the 
high  ground  behind  the  little  Gheet  river,  and  having  on  his  left 
the  little  village  of  Anderkirk  or  Autre-eglise,  and  on  his  right 
Ramillies,  wiiich  has  given  its  name  to  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
and  disastrous  days  of  battle  that  history  ever  hath  recorded. 

Our  Duke  here  once  more  met  his  old  enemy  of  Blenheim,  the 
Bavarian  Elector  and  the  Marechal  Villeroy,  over  whom  the  Prince 
of  Savoy  had  gained  the  famous  victory  of  Chiari.  What  English- 
man or  Frenchman  doth  not  know  the  issue  of  that  day?  Having 
chosen  his  own  ground,  having  a  force  superior  to  the  English,  and 
besides  the  excellent  Spanish  and  Bavarian  troops,  the  whole 
Maison-du-Roy  with  him,  the  most  splendid  body  of  horse  in  the 
world, — in  an  hour  (and  in  spite  of  the  prodigious  gallantry  of  the 
French  Royal  Household,  who  charged  through  the  centre  of  our 
line  and  broke  it)  this  magnificent  army  of  Villeroy  was  utterly 
routed  by  troops  that  had  been  marching  for  twelve  hours,  and  by 
the  intrepid  skill  of  a  commander  who  did,  indeed,  seem  in  the 
presence  of  the  enemy  to  be  the  very  Genius  of  Victory. 

I  think  it  was  more  from  conviction  than  policy,  though  that 
policy  was  surely  the  most  prudent  in  the  world,  that  the  great 
Duke  always  spoke  of  his  victories  with  an  extraordinary  modesty, 
and  as  if  it  was  not  so  much  his  own  admirable  genius  and  courage 
which  achieved  these  amazing  successes,  but  as  if  he  was  a  special 
and  fatal  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Providence,  that  willed  irre- 
sistibly the  enemy's  overthrow.  Before  his  actions  he  always  had 
the  Church  service  read  solemnly,  and  professed  an  undoubting 
belief  that  our  Queen's  arms  w^ere  blessed  and  our  victory  sure. 

317 


318  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

All  the  letters  which  he  writ  after  his  battles  show  awe  rather  than 
exultation;  and  he  attributes  the  glory  of  these  achievements, 
about  which  I  have  heard  mere  petty  officers  and  men  bragging 
with  a  pardonable  vain-glory,  in  nowise  to  his  own  bravery  or  skill, 
but  to  the  superintending  protection  of  Heaven,  which  he  ever 
seemed  to  think  was  our  especial  ally.  And  our  army  got  to 
believe  so,  and  the  enemy  learnt  to  think  so  too;  for  we  never 
entered  into  a  battle  without  a  perfect  confidence  that  it  was  to  end 
in  a  victory;  nor  did  the  French,  after  the  issue  of  Blenheim,  and 
that  astonishing  triumph  of  Ramillies,  ever  meet  us  without  feeling 
that  the  game  was  lost  before  it  was  begun  to  be  played,  and  tliat 
our  General's  fortune  was  irresistible.  Here,  as  at  Blenheim,  the 
Duke's  charger  was  shot,  and  'twas  thought  for  a  moment  he  was 
dead.  As  he  mounted  another,  Binfield,  his  master  of  the  horse, 
kneeling  to  hold  his  Grace's  stirrup,  had  his  head  shot  away  by  a 
cannon-ball.  A  French  gentleman  of  the  Royal  Household,  that 
was  a  prisoner  with  us,  told  the  writer  that  at  the  time  of  the 
charge  of  the  Household,  when  their  horse  and  ours  were  mingled, 
an  Irish  officer  recognised  the  Prince-Duke,  and  calling  out  "Marl- 
borough, Marlborough!"  fired  his  pistol  at  him  a  bout -port  ant,  and 
tliat  a  score  more  carbines  and  pistols  were  discharged  at  him.  Not 
one  touched  him:  he  rode  through  the  French  Cuirassiers  sword  in 
hand,  and  entirely  unhurt,  and  calm  and  smiling,  rallied  the 
German  Horse,  that  was  reeling  before  the  enemy,  brought  these 
and  twenty  squadrons  of  Orkney's  back  upon  them,  and  drove  the 
French  across  the  river,  again  leading  the  charge  himself,  and 
defeating  the  only  dangerous  move  tlie  French  made  that  day, 

Major-General  Webb  commanded  on  the  left  of  our  line,  and  had 
his  own  regiment  under  the  orders  of  their  beloved  colonel. 
Neither  he  nor  they  belied  their  character  for  gallantry  on  this 
occasion ;  but  it  was  about  his  dear  young  lord  that  Esmond  was 
anxious,  never  having  sight  of  him  save  once,  in  the  whole  course 
of  the  day,  wdien  he  brought  an  order  from  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  to  Mr.  Webb.  When  our  horse,  having  charged  round  the 
right  flank  of  the  enemy  by  Overkirk,  had  throv>-n  him  into  entire 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  319 

confusion,  a  general  advance  was  made,  and  our  whole  line  of  foot, 
crossing  the  little  river  and  the  morass,  ascended  the  high  ground 
where  the  French  were  posted,  cheering  as  they  went,  the  enemy 
retreating  before  them.  'Twas  a  service  of  more  glory  than 
danger,  the  French  battalions  never  waiting  to  exchange  push  of 
pike  or  bayonet  with  ours;  and  the  gunners  flying  from  their 
pieces,  which  our  line  left  behind  us  as  they  advanced,  and  the 
French  fell  back. 

At  first  it  was  a  retreat  orderly  enough;  but  presently  the 
retreat  became  a  rout,  and  a  frightful  slaughter  of  the  French 
ensued  on  this  panic  •  so  that  an  army  of  sixty  thousand  men  was 
utterly  crushed  and  destroyed  in  the  course  of  a  couple  of  hours. 
It  was  as  if  a  hurricane  had  seized  a  compact  numerous  fleet,  flung 
it  all  to  the  winds,  shattered,  sunk,  and  annihilated  it:  afflavit 
Dens,  et  dissijmti  sunt.  The  French  army  of  Flanders  w^as  gone ; 
their  artillery,  their  standards,  their  treasure,  provisions,  and 
ammunition  were  all  left  behind  them:  the  poor  devils  had  even  fled 
without  their  soup-kettles,  which  are  as  much  the  palladia  of  the 
French  infantry  as  of  the  Grand  Seignior's  Janissaries,  and  round 
which  they  rally  even  more  than  round  their  lilies. 

The  pursuit,  and  a  dreadful  carnage  w^hicli  ensued  (for  the  dregs 
of  a  battle,  however  brilliant,  are  ever  a  base  residue  of  rapine, 
cruelty,  and  drunken  plunder),  was  carried  far  beyond  the  field  of 
Ramillies. 

Honest  Lockwood,  Esmond's  servant,  no  doubt  wanted  to  be 
among  the  marauders  himself  and  take  his  share  of  the  boot}" ;  for 
when,  the  action  over,  and  the  troops  got  to  their  ground  for  the 
night,  the  Captain  bade  Lockwood  get  a  horse,  he  asked,  with  a  very 
rueful  countenance,  whether  his  honour  would  have  him  come  too; 
but  his  honour  only  bade  him  go  about  his  own  business,  and  Jack 
hopped  away  quite  delighted  as  soon  as  he  saw  his  master  mounted. 
Esmond  made  his  way,  and  not  without  danger  and  diflSculty,  to 
his  Grace's  headquarters,  and  found  for  himself  very  quickly 
where  the  aides-de-camp's  quarters  were,  in  an  outbuilding  of  a 
farm,  where  several  of  these  gentlemen  were  seated,  drinking  and 


330  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

singing,  and  at  supper.  If  he  had  any  anxiety  about  his  boy,  'twas 
relieved  at  once.  One  of  the  gentlemen  was  singing  a  song  to  a 
tune  that  Mr.  Farquhar  and  Mr.  Gay  both  had  used  in  their  admira- 
ble comedies,  and  very  popular  in  the  army  of  that  day;  and  after 
tlie  song  came  a  chorus,  "Over  the  hills  and  far  away;"  and 
Esmond  heard  Frank's  fresh  voice,  soaring,  as  it  were,  over  the 
songs  of  the  rest  of  the  young  men — a  voice  that  had  ahvays  a 
certain  artless,  indescribable  pathos  with  it,  and  indeed  which 
caused  Mr.  Esmond's  eyes  to  fill  with  tears  now,  out  of  thankful- 
ness to  God  the  child  was  safe  and  still  alive  to  laugh  and  sing. 

When  the  song  was  over,  Esmond  entered  the  room,  where  he 
knew  several  of  the  gentlemen  pre.sent,  and  there  sat  my  young 
lord,  having  taken  off  his  cuirass,  his  waistcoat  open,  his  face 
flushed,  his  long  yellow  hair  hanging  over  his  shoulders,  drinking 
with  the  rest ;  the  youngest,  gayest,  handsomest  there.  As  soon  as 
he  saw  Esmond,  he  clapped  down  his  glass,  and  running  towards 
his  friend,  put  both  his  arms  romid  him  and  embraced  him.  The 
other's  voice  trembled  with  joy  as  he  greeted  the  lad;  he  had 
thought  but  now  as  he  stood  in  the  courtyard  under  the  clear- 
shining  moonlight:  "Great  God!  what  a  scene  of  murder  is  here 
within  a  mile  of  us;  what  hundreds  and  thousands  have  faced 
danger  to-day ;  and  here  are  these  lads  singing  over  their  cups,  and 
the  same  moon  that  is  shining  over  yonder  horrid  field  is  looking 
down  on  Walcote  very  likely,  while  my  Lady  sits  and  thinks  about 
her  boy  that  is  at  the  war."'  As  Esmond  embraced  his  young  pupil 
now,  'twas  with  a  feeling  of  quite  religious  thankfulness  and  an 
almost  paternal  pleasure  that  he  beheld  him. 

Round  his  neck  was  a  star  with  a  striped  riband,  that  was  made 
of  small  brilliants  and  might  be  worth  a  hundred  crowns.  "Look," 
says  he,  "won't  that  be  a  pretty  present  for  mother?" 

"Who  gave  you  the  Order?"  says  Harry,  saluting  the  gentlemen: 
"did  you  win  it  in  battle?" 

"I  won  it."  cried  the  other,  "with  my  sword  and  my  spear. 
There  was  a  mousquetaire  that  had  it  round  his  neck — such  a  big 
mousquetaire,  as  big  as  General  Webb.     I  called  out  to  him  to  sur- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  321 

render,  and  that  I'd  give  him  quarter:  he  called  me  ?i petit polisson 
and  fired  his  pistol  at  me,  and  then  sent  it  at  my  head  with  a  curse. 
I  rode  at  him,  sir,  drove  my  sword  right  under  his  armhole,  and 
broke  it  in  the  rascal's  body.  I  found  a  purse  in  his  holster  with 
sixty- five  Louis  in  it,  and  a  bundle  of  love-letters,  and  a  flask  of 
Hungary -water.  Vive  la  guerre!  there  are  the  ten  pieces  you  lent 
me.  I  should  like  to  have  a  fight  every  day;"  and  he  pulled  at  his 
little  moustache  and  bade  a  servant  bring  a  supper  to  Captain 
Esmond. 

Harry  fell  to  with  a  very  good  appetite:  he  had  tasted  nothing 
since  twenty  hours  ago,  at  early  dawn.  Master  Grandson,  who  read 
this,  do  you  look  for  the  history  of  battles  and  sieges?  Go,  find 
them  in  the  proper  books;  this  is  only  the  story  of  your  grandfather 
and  his  family.  Far  more  pleasant  to  him  than  the  victory,  though 
for  that  too  he  may  say  meminisse  juvat,  it  was  to  find  that  the  day 
was  over,  and  his  dear  young  Castle  wood  was  unhurt. 

And  would  you,  sirrah,  wish  to  know  how  it  was  that  a  sedate 
Captain  of  Foot,  a  studious  and  rather  solitary  bachelor  of  eight  or 
nine  and  twenty  years  of  age,  who  did  not  care  very  much  for  the 
jollities  which  his  comrades  engaged  in,  and  was  never  known  to 
lose  his  heart  in  any  garrison-town — should  you  wish  to  know  why 
such  a  man  had  so  prodigious  a  tenderness,  and  tended  so  fondly  a 
boy  of  eighteen,  wait,  my  good  friend,  until  thou  art  in  love  with 
thy  schoolfellow's  sister,  and  then  see  how  mighty  tender  thou  wilt 
be  towards  him.  Esmond's  General  and  his  Grace  the  Prince-Duke 
were  notoriously  at  variance,  and  the  former's  friendship  was  in 
nowise  likely  to  advance  any  man's  promotion  of  whose  services 
Webb  spoke  well ;  but  rather  likely  to  injure  him,  so  the  army  said, 
in  the  favour  of  the  greater  man.  However,  Mr.  Esmond  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  mentioned  very  advantageously  by  Major- 
General  Webb  in  his  report  after  the  action;  and  the  major  of  his 
regiment  and  two  of  the  captains  having  been  killed  upon  the  day 
of  Ramillies,  Esmond,  who  was  second  of  the  lieutenants,  got  his 
company,  and  had  the  honour  of  serving  as  Captain  Esmond  in  the 
next  campaign. 


322  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

My  Lord  went  home  in  the  winter,  but  Esmond  was  afraid  to 
follow  him.  His  dear  mistress  wrote  him  letters  more  than  once, 
thanking  him,  as  mothers  know  how  to  thank,  for  his  care  and  pro- 
tection of  her  boy,  extolling  Esmond's  own  merits  with  a  great 
deal  more  praise  than  they  deserved ;  for  he  did  his  duty  no  better 
than  any  other  officer ;  and  speaking  sometimes,  though  gently  and 
cautiously,  of  Beatrix.  News  came  from  home  of  at  least  half-a- 
dozen  grand  matches  that  the  beautiful  maid  of  honour  was  about 
to  make.  She  was  engaged  to  an  earl,  our  gentleman  of  St.  James's 
said,  and  then  jilted  him  for  a  duke,  who,  in  his  turn,  had  drawn 
off.  Earl  or  duke  it  might  be  who  should  win  this  Helen,  EsmonJ 
knew  she  would  never  bestow  herself  on  a  poor  captain.  Her  con- 
duct, it  was  clear,  was  little  satisfactory  to  her  mother,  who 
scarcely  mentioned  her,  or  else  the  kind  lady  thought  it  was  best  to 
say  nothing,  and  leave  time  to  work  out  its  cure.  At  any  rate, 
Harry  was  best  away  from  the  fatal  object  which  always  \vrought 
him  so  much  mischief;  and  so  he  never  asked  for  leave  to  go  home, 
but  remained  with  his  regiment  that  was  garrisoned  in  Brussels, 
which  city  fell  into  our  hands  when  the  victory  of  Ramillies  drove 
the  French  out  of  Flanders. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I  MEET  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  IN  FLANDERS,  AND  FIND  MY  MOTHER'S 
GRAVE  AND  MY  OWN  CRADLE  THERE 

Being  one  day  in  the  Church  of  St.  Gudule,  at  Brussels, 
admiring  the  antique  splendour  of  the  architecture  (and  always 
entertaining  a  great  tenderness  and  reverence  for  the  Mother 
Churcli,  that  hath  been  as  wickedly  persecuted  in  England  as 
ever  she  herself  persecuted  in  the  days  of  her  prosperity),  Esmond 
saw  kneeling  at  a  side  altar  an  officer  in  a  green  uniform  coat, 
very  deeply  engaged  in  devotion.  Something  familiar  in  the 
figure  and  posture  of  the  kneeling  man  struck  Captain  Esmond, 
even  before  he  saw  the  officer's  face.  As  he  rose  up,  putting 
away  into  his  pocket  a  little  black  breviary,  such  as  priests 
use,  Esmond  beheld  a  countenance  so  like  that  of  his  friend  and 
tutor  of  early  days.  Father  Holt,  that  he  broke  out  into  an  excla- 
mation of  astonishment  and  advanced  a  step  towards  the  gentle- 
man, who  was  making  his  way  out  of  church.  The  German  officer 
too  looked  surprised  when  he  saw  Esmond,  and  his  face  from  being 
pale  grew  suddenly  red.  By  this  mark  of  recognition  the  English- 
man knew  that  he  could  not  be  mistaken;  and  though  the  other  did 
not  stop,  but  on  the  contrary  rather  hastily  walked  away  towards 
the  door,  Esmond  pursued  him  and  faced  him  once  more,  as  the 
officer,  helping  himself  to  holy  water,  turned  mechanically  towards 
the  altar,  to  bow  to  it  ere  he  quitted  the  sacred  edifice. 

"My  Father!"  says  Esmond  in  English. 

"Silence!  I  do  not  understand.  I  do  not  speak  English,"'  says 
the  other  in  Latin. 

Esmond  smiled  at  this  sign  of  confusion,  and  replied  in  the  same 
language,  "I  should  know  my  Father  in  any  garment,  black  or 
white,  shaven  or  bearded,"  for  the  Austrian  officer  was  habited 

323 


324  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

quite  in  the  military  manner,  and  had  as  warlike  a  mustachio  as 
any  Pandour. 

He  laughed — we  w^ere  on  the  church  steps  by  this  time,  passing 
through  the  crowd  of  beggars  that  usually  is  there  holding  up  little 
trinkets  for  sale  and  whining  for  alms.  "You  speak  Latin,"  says 
he,  "in  the  English  way,  Harry  Esmond;  you  have  forsaken  the 
old  true  Roman  tongue  you  once  knew."  His  tone  was  very  frank, 
and  quite  friendly ;  the  kind  voice  of  fifteen  years  back ;  he  gave 
Esmond  his  hand  as  he  spoke. 

"Others  have  changed  their  coats  too,  my  Father,"  says  Esmond, 
glancing  at  his  friend's  military  decoration. 

"Hush!  I  am  Mr.  or  Captain  von  Holtz,  in  the  Bavarian 
Elector's  service,  and  on  a  mission  to  his  Highness  the  Prince  of 
Savoy.     You  can  keep  a  secret  I  know  from  old  times. " 

"Captain  von  Holtz,"  says  Esmond,  "I  am  your  very  humble 
servant." 

"And  you,  too,  have  changed  your  coat,"  continues  the  other  in 
his  laughing  way.  "I  have  heard  of  you  at  Cambridge  and  after- 
wards: we  have  friends  everywhere;  and  I  am  told  that  Mr. 
Esmond  at  Cambridge  was  as  good  a  fencer  as  he  was  a  bad  theo- 
logian."  (So,  thinks  Esmond,  my  old  maitre  d' amies  was  a  Jesuit, 
as  they  said.) 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  says  the  other,  reading  his  thoughts 
quite  as  he  used  to  do  in  old  days;  "you  were  all  but  killed  at 
Hochstedt  of  a  wound  in  the  left  side.  You  were  before  that  at 
Vigo,  aide-de-camp  to  the  Duke  of  Ormonde.  You  got  your  com- 
pany the  other  day  after  Ramillies ;  your  General  and  the  Prince- 
Duke  are  not  friends;  he  is  of  the  Webbs  of  Lydiard  Tregoze,  in 
the  county  of  York,  a  relation  of  my  Lord  St.  John.  Your  cousin, 
M.  de  Castlewood,  served  his  first  campaign  this  year  in  the  Guard. 
Yes,  I  do  know  a  few  things,  as  you  see. " 

Captain  Esmond  laughed  in  his  turn.  "You  have  indeed  a  curi- 
ous knowledge,"  he  says.  A  foible  of  Mr.  Holt's,  who  did  know 
more  about  books  and  men  than,  perhaps,  almost  any  person 
F*5mond  had  ever  met,  was  omniscience ;  thus  in  every  point  he 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  825 

here  professed  to  know,  he  was  nearly  right,  but  not  quite. 
Esmond's  wound  was  in  the  right  side,  not  the  left ;  his  first  gen- 
eral was  General  Lumley;  Mr.  Webb  came  out  of  Wiltshire,  not 
out  of  Yorkshire ;  and  so  forth.  Esmond  did  not  think  fit  to  cor- 
rect his  old  master  in  these  trifling  blunders,  but  they  served  to 
give  him  a  knowledge  of  the  other's  character,  and  he  smiled  to 
think  that  this  was  his  oracle  of  early  days;  only  now  no  longer 
infallible  or  divine. 

"Yes,"  continues  Father  Holt,  or  Captain  von  Holtz,  "for  a  man 
who  has  not  been  in  England  these  eight  years,  I  know  what  goes 
on  in  London  very  well.  The  old  Dean  is  dead,  my  Lady  Castle- 
wood's  father.  Do  you  know  that  your  recusant  bishops  wanted  to 
consecrate  him  Bishop  of  Southampton,  and  that  Collier  is  Bishop 
of  Thetford  by  the  same  imposition?  The  Princess  Anne  lias  the 
gout  and  eats  too  much ;  when  the  King  returns.  Collier  will  be  an 
archbishop." 

"Amen!"  says  Esmond,  laughing;  "and  I  hope  to  see  your  Emi- 
nence no  longer  in  jackboots,  but  red  stockings,  at  Whitehall." 

*'You  are  always  with  us — I  know  that — I  heard  of  that  when 
you  were  at  Cambridge;  so  was  the  late  lord;  so  is  the  young 
viscount." 

"And  so  was  my  father  before  me,"  said  Mr.  Esmond,  looking 
calmly  at  the  other,  who  did  not,  however,  show  the  least  sign  of 
intelligence  in  his  impenetrable  grey  eyes — how  well  Harry  remem- 
bered them  and  their  look!  only  crows'-feet  were  wrinkled  round 
them — marks  of  black  old  Time  had  settled  there. 

Esmond's  face  chose  to  show  no  more  sign  of  meaning  than  the 
Father's.  There  may  have  been  on  the  one  side  and  the  other  just 
the  faintest  glitter  of  recognition,  as  you  see  a  bayonet  shining  out 
of  an  ambush;  but  each  party  fell  back,  when  everything  was 
again  dark. 

"And  you,  mon  capitaine,  where  have  you  been?"  says  Esmond, 
turning  away  the  conversation  from  this  dangerous  ground,  where 
neither  chose  to  engage. 

*'I  may  have  been  in  Pekin,"  says  he,  "or  I  may  have  been  in 


326  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Paraguay — who  knows  where?  I  am  now  Captain  von  Holtz,  in 
the  service  of  his  Electoral  Highness,  come  to  negotiate  exchange 
of  prisoners  with  his  Highness  of  Savoy." 

'Twas  well  known  that  very  many  officers  in  our  army  were  well 
affected  towards  the  young  King  at  St.  Germains,  whose  right  to 
the  throne  was  undeniable,  and  whose  accession  to  it,  at  the  death 
of  his  sister,  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  English  people  would 
have  preferred,  to.  the  having  a  petty  German  prince  for  a  sov- 
ereign, about  whose  cruelty,  rapacity,  boorish  manners,  and  odious 
foreign  ways,  a  thousand  stories  were  current.  It  wounded  our 
English  pride  to  think  that  a  shabby  High-Dutch  duke,  whose  rev- 
enues were  not  a  tithe  as  great  as  those  of  many  of  the  princes  of 
our  ancient  English  nobility,  who  could  not  speak  a  word  of  our 
language,  and  whom  we  chose  to  represent  as  a  sort  of  German 
boor,  feeding  on  train-oil  and  sour-crout  with  a  bevy  of  mistresses 
in  a  barn,  should  come  to  reign  over  the  proudest  and  most  polished 
people  in  the  world.  Were  we,  the  conquerors  of  the  Grand  Mon- 
arch, to  submit  to  that  ignoble  domination?  What  did  the  Hano- 
verian's Protestantism  matter  to  us?  Was  it  not  notorious  (we 
were  told  and  led  to  believe  so)  that  one  of  the  daughters  of  this 
Protestant  hero  was  being  bred  up  with  no  religion  at  all,  as  yet, 
and  ready  to  be  made  Lutheran  or  Roman,  according  as  the  husband 
might  be  whom  her  parents  should  find  for  her?  This  talk,  very 
idle  and  abusive  much  of  it  was,  went  on  at  a  hundred  mess-tables 
in  the  army ;  there  was  scarce  an  ensign  that  did  not  hear  it,  or 
join  in  it,  and  everybody  knew,  or  affected  to  know,  that  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief himself  had  relations  with  his  nephew,  the  Duke 
of  Berwick  ('twas  by  an  Englishman,  thank  God,  that  we  were 
beaten  at  Almanza),  and  that  his  Grace  was  most  anxious  to 
restore  the  royal  race  of  his  benefactors,  and  to  repair  his  former 
treason. 

This  is  certain,  that  for  a  considerable  period  no  officer  in  the 
Duke's  army  lost  favour  with  the  Commander-in-Chief  for  enter- 
taining or  proclaiming  his  loyalty  towards  the  exiled  family. 
When  the  Chevalier  de  St.  George,  as  the  King  of  England  called 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  337 

himself,  came  with  tlie  dukes  of  the  French  blood  royal,  to  join  the 
French  army  under  Vendosme,  hundreds  of  ours  saw  him  and 
cheered  him,  and  we  all  said  he  was  like  his  father  in  this,  who, 
seeing  the  action  of  La  Hogue  fought  between  the  French  ships 
and  ours,  was  on  the  side  of  his  native  country  during  the  battle. 
But  this  at  least  the  Chevalier  knew,  and  every  one  knew,  that, 
however  well  our  troops  and  their  general  might  be  inclined 
towards  the  Prince  personally,  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  there  was 
no  question  at  all.  Wherever  my  Lord  Duke  found  a  French  army, 
he  would  fight  and  beat  it,  as  he  did  at  Oudenarde,  two  years  after 
Ramillies,  where  his  Grace  achieved  another  of  his  transcendent 
victories;  and  the  noble  young  Prince,  who  charged  gallantly 
along  with  the  magnificent  Maison-du-Roy,  sent  to  compliment  his 
conquerors  after  the  action. 

In  this  battle,  where  the  young  Electoral  Prince  of  Hanover 
behaved  himself  very  gallantly,  fighting  on  our  side,  Esmond's  dear 
General  Webb  distinguished  himself  prodigiously,  exhibiting  con- 
summate  skill  and  coolness  as  a  general,  and  fighting  with  the  per- 
sonal bravery  of  a  common  soldier.  Esmond's  good-luck  again 
attended  him;  he  escaped  without  a  hurt,  although  more  than  a 
third  of  his  regiment  was  killed,  had  again  the  honour  to  be  favour- 
ably mentioned  in  his  commander's  report,  and  was  advanced  to 
the  rank  of  major.  But  of  this  action  there  is  little  need  to  speak, 
as  it  hath  been  related  in  every  Gazette,  and  talked  of  in  every 
hamlet  in  this  country.  To  return  from  it  to  the  writer's  private 
affairs,  which  here,  in  his  old  age,  and  at  a  distance,  he  narrates 
for  his  children  who  come  after  him.  Before  Oudenarde,  after  that 
chance  rencontre  with  Captain  von  Holtz  at  Brussels,  a  space  of 
more  than  a  year  elapsed,  during  which  the  captain  of  Jesuits  and 
the  captain  of  Webb's  Fusileers  were  thrown  very  much  together. 
Esmond  had  no  diflSculty  in  finding  cut  (indeed,  the  other  made  no 
secret  of  it  to  him,  being  assured  from  old  times  of  his  pupil's  fidel- 
ity) that  the  negotiator  of  prisoners  was  an  agent  from  St.  Ger- 
mains,  and  that  he  carried  intelligence  between  great  personages 
in  our  camp  and  that  of  the  French^     "M}"  business,"  said  he — 


328  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

"and  I  tell  you,  both  because  I  can  trust  you  and  your  keen  eyes 
have  already  discovered  it — is  between  the  King  of  England  and 
his  subjects  here  engaged  in  fighting  the  French  King.  As  between 
you  and  them,  all  the  Jesuits  in  the  world  will  not  prevent  your 
quarrelling:  iight  it  out,  gentlemen.  St.  George  for  England,  I  say 
—and  you  know  who  says  so,  wherever  he  may  be." 

I  think  Holt  loved  to  make  a  parade  of  mystery,  as  it  were,  and 
would  appear  and  disappear  at  our  quarters  as  suddenly  as  he  used 
to  return  and  vanish  in  the  old  days  at  Castlewood.  He  had 
passes  between  both  armies,  and  seemed  to  know  (but  with  that 
inaccuracy  which  belonged  to  the  good  Father's  omniscience) 
equally  well  what  passed  in  the  French  camp  and  in  ours.  One 
day  he  would  give  Esmond  news  of  a  great  feste  that  took  place  in 
the  French  quarters,  of  a  supper  of  Monsieur  de  Rohan's  where 
there  was  play  and  violins,  and  then  dancing  and  masques;  the  King 
drove  thither  in  Marshal  Villars'  own  guinguette.  Another  day  he 
had  the  news  of  his  Majesty's  ague:  the  King  had  not  had  a  fit 
these  ten  days,  and  might  be  said  to  be  well.  Captain  Holtz  made 
a  visit  to  England  during  this  time,  so  eager  was  he  about  negoti- 
ating prisoners ;  and  'twas  on  returning  from  this  voyage  that  he 
began  to  open  himself  more  to  Esmond,  and  to  make  him,  as  occa- 
sion served,  at  their  various  meetings,  several  of  those  confidences 
which  are  here  set  down  all  together. 

The  reason  of  his  increased  confidence  was  this:  upon  going  to 
London,  the  old  director  of  Esmond's  aunt,  the  Dowager,  paid  her 
Ladyship  a  visit  at  Chelsey,  and  there  learnt  from  her  that  Captain 
Esmond  was  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  his  family,  and  was 
determined  never  to  divulge  it.  The  knovvledge  of  this  fact  raiseti 
Esmond  in  his  old  tutor's  eyes,  so  Holt  was  pleased  to  say,  and  he 
admired  Harry  very  much  for  his  abnegation. 

"The  famil^^  at  Castlewood  have  done  far  more  for  me  than  my 
own  ever  did,"  Esmond  said.  "I  would  give  my  life  for  them. 
Why  should  I  grudge  the  only  benefit  that  'tis  in  my  power  to 
confer  on  them?"  The  good  Father's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  this 
speech,   which    to    the  other  seemed    very  simple:  he  embraced 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  329 

Esmond,  and  broke  out  into  many  admiring  expressions;  he  said 
he  was  a  nohle  cceur,  that  he  was  proud  of  him,  and  fond  of  him  as 
his  pupil  and  friend — regretted  more  than  ever  that  he  had  lost  him 
and  been  forced  to  leave  him  in  those  early  times,  when  he  might 
have  had  an  influence  over  him,  have  brought  him  into  that  only 
true  Churcli  to  which  the  Fatlier  belonged,  and  enlisted  him  in  the 
noblest  army  in  which  a  man  ever  engaged — meaning  his  own  Soci- 
ety of  Jesus,  which  numbers  (says  he)  in  its  troops  the  greatest 
heroes  the  world  ever  knew : — warriors  brave  enough  to  dare  or 
endure  anything,  to  encounter  any  odds,  to  die  any  death ; — soldiers 
that  have  won  triumphs  a  thousand  times  more  brilliant  than  those 
of  the  greatest  general ;  that  have  brought  nations  on  their  knees 
to  their  sacred  banner,  the  Cross;  that  have  achieved  glories  and 
palms  incomparably  brighter  than  those  awarded  to  the  most  splen- 

j  did  earthly  conquerors — crowns  of  immortal  light,  and  seats  in  the 

i  high  places  of  heaven. 

I  Esmond  was  thankful  for  his  old  friend's  good  opinion,  however 
little  he  might  share  the  Jesuit  Father's  enthusiasm.  "I  have 
thought  of  that  question,  too,"  says  he,  "dear  Father,"  and  he  took 
the  other's  hand — "thought  it  out  for  mj^self,  as  all  men  must,  and 
contrive  to  do  the  right,  and  trust  to  Heaven  as  devoutly  in  my  way 
as  you  in  yours.  Another  six  months  of  you  as  a  child,  and  I  had 
desired  no  better.  I  used  to  weep  upon  my  pillow  at  Castlewood  as 
I  thought  of  you,  and  I  might  have  been  a  brother  of  your  order : 
and  who  knows,"  Esmond  added  with  a  smile,  "a  priest  in  full 
orders,  and  with  a  pair  of  mustachios,  and  a  Bavarian  uniform?" 

"My  son,"  says  Father  Holt,  turning  red,  "in  the  cause  of 
religion  and  loyalty  all  disguises  are  fair." 

"Yes,"  broke  in  Esmond,  "all  disguises  are  fair,  you  say;  and  all 
uniforms,  say  I,  black  or  red, — a  black  cockade  or  a  white  one — or  a 
laced  hat.  or  a  sombrero,  with  a  tonsure  under  it.  I  cannot  believe 
that  Saint  Francis  Xavier  sailed  over  the  sea  in  a  cloak,  or  raised 
the  dead — I  tried,  and  very  nearly  did  once,  but  cannot.    Suffer  me 

I  to  do  the  right,  and  to  hope  for  the  best  in  my  own  way." 
Esmond  wished  to  cut  short  the  good  Father's  theology,  and 


830  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

succeeded;  and  the  other,  sighing  over  his  pupil's  invincible  igno- 
rance, did  not  withdraw  his  affection  from  him,  but  gave  him  his 
utmost  confidence — as  much,  that  is  to  say,  as  a  priest  can  give: 
more  than  most  do ;  for  he  was  naturally  garrulous,  and  too  eager 
ta  speak. 

Holt's  friendship  encouraged  Captain  Esmond  to  ask,  what  lie 
long  wished  to  know,  and  none  could  tell  him,  some  liistory  of 
the  poor  mother  whom  he  had  often  imagined  in  his  dreams,  and 
whom  he  never  knew.  He  described  to  Holt  those  circumstances 
which  are  already  put  down  in  the  first  part  of  this  story — the 
promise  he  had  made  to  his  dear  lord,  and  that  dying  friend's  con- 
fession; and  he  besought  Mr.  Holt  to  tell  him  what  he  knew  regard- 
ing the  poor  woman  from  whom  he  had  been  taken. 

'She  was  of  this  very  town,''  Holt  said,  and  took  Esmond  to  see 
the  street  where  her  father  lived,  and  where,  as  he  believed,  she 
was  born.  "In  1G79,  when  your  father  came  hither  in  the  retinue 
of  the  late  King,  then  Duke  of  York,  and  banished  hither  in  dis- 
grace, Captain  Thomas  Esmond  became  acquainted  vrith  your 
mother,  pursued  her,  and  made  a  victim  of  her;  he  hath  told  me 
in  many  subsequent  conversations,  which  I  felt  bound  to  keep  pri- 
vate then,  that  she  was  a  woman  of  great  virtue  and  tenderness, 
and  in  all  respects  a  most  fond,  faithful  creature.  He  called  him- 
self Captain  Thomas,  having  good  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  his  con- 
duct towards  her,  and  lia,th  spoken  to  me  many  times  with  sincere 
r9m0r.se  for  that,  as  with  fond  love  for  her  many  amiable  qualities 
lie  owned  to  having  treated  her  very  ill:  and  that  at  this  time  liis 
life  was  one  of  profligacy,  gambling,  and  poverty.  She  became 
with  child  of  you;  \vas  cursed  In- her  own  parents  at  that  discov- 
ery; though  she  never  upbraided,  except  by  her  involuntary  tears, 
and  the  misery  depicted  ou  her  countenance,  the  author  of  liei 
wretchedness  and  ruin. 

"Thomas  Esmond — Captain  Thomas,  as  he  was  called — became 
engaged  in  a  gaming-house  brawd,  of  which  the  consequence  was 
a  duel,  and  a  wound  so  severe  that  he  never — his  surgeon  said — 
could  outlive  it.     Thinking  his  death  certain,  and  touched  with 


THE  mSTORY  OF  HENRY  ESM0N1>  JBI 

remorse,  he  sent  for  a  priest  of  the  very  Church  of  St.  Gudule 
where  I  met  you ;  and  on  the  same  day,  after  his  making  submis- 
sion to  our  Church,  was  married  to  your  mother  a  few  weeks  before 
you  were  born.  My  Lord  Viscount  Castle  wood.  Marquis  of  Esmond, 
by  King  James's  patent,  which  I  myself  took  to  your  father,  your 
Lordship  was  christened  at  St.  Gudule  by  the  same  cure  who  mar- 
ried your  parents,  and  by  the  name  of  Henry  Thomas,  son  of 
E.  Thomas,  officer  Anglois,  and  Gertrude  Maes.  You  see  you  belong 
to  us  from  your  birth,  and  why  I  did  not  christen  you  when  you 
became  my  dear  little  pupil  at  Castlewood. 

"Your  father's  wound  took  a  favourable  turn — perhaps  his  con- 
science was  eased  by  the  right  he  had  done — and  to  the  surprise  of 
the  doctors  he  recovered.  But  as  his  health  came  back,  his  wicked 
nature,  too,  returned.  He  was  tired  of  the  poor  girl  w^hom  he  had 
ruined;  and  receiving  some  remittance  from  his  uncle,  my  Lord 
the  old  Viscount,  then  in  England,  he  pretended  business,  promised 
return,  and  never  saw  your  poor  mother  more. 

"He  owned  to  me,  in  confession  first,  but  afterwards  in  talk 
before  your  aunt,  his  wife,  else  I  never  could  have  disclosed  what  I 
now  tell  you,  that  on  coming  to  London  he  vrrit  a  pretended  confes- 
sion to  poor  Gertrude  Maes — Gertrude  Esmond — of  his  having  been 
married  in  England  previously,  before  uniting  himself  with  her; 
said  that  his  name  was  not  Thomas;  that  he  was  about  to  quit 
Europe  for  the  Virginian  plantations,  where,  indeed,  your  family 
had  a  grant  of  land  from  King  Charles  the  First;  sent  her  a  supply 
of  money,  the  half  of  the  last  hundred  guineas  he  had,  entreated 
her  pardon,  and  bade  lier  farewell. 

"Poor  Gertrude  never  thouglit  that  the  news  in  this  letter  might 
be  untrue  as  the  rest  of  your  father's  conduct  to  her.  But  though 
a  young  man  of  her  own  degree,  who  knew  her  history,  and  whom 
she  liked  before  she  saw  the  English  gentleman  who  was  the  cause 
of  all  her  misery,  offered  to  marry  her,  and  to  adopt  you  as  his  own 
child,  and  give  you  his  name,  she  refused  him.  Tliis  refusal  only 
angered  her  father,  v.dio  had  taken  her  home:  she  never  held  up 
her  head  there,  being  the  subject  of  constant  unkindness  after  her 


333  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

fall;  and  some  devout  ladies  of  her  acquaintance  offering  to  pay  a 
little  pension  for  her,  she  went  into  a  convent,  and  you  were  put  out 
to  nurse. 

"A  sister  of  the  young  fellow  who  would  have  adopted  you  as 
his  son  was  the  person  who  took  charge  of  you.  Your  mother  and 
this  person  were  cousins.  She  had  just  lost  a  child  of  her  own, 
which  you  replaced,  your  own  mother  being  too  sick  and  feeble  to 
feed  you ;  and  presently  your  nurse  grew  so  fond  of  you,  that  she 
even  grudged  letting  you  visit  the  convent  where  your  mother  was, 
and  where  the  nuns  petted  the  little  infant,  as  they  pitied  and  loved 
its  unhappy  parent.  Her  vocation  became  stronger  every  day,  and 
at  the  end  of  two  years  she  was  received  as  a  sister  of  the  house. 

"Your  nurse's  family  were  silk- weavers  out  of  France,  whither 
they  returned  to  Arras  in  French  Flanders,  shortly  before  your 
mother  took  her  vows,  carrying  you  with  them,  then  a  child  of 
three  years  old.  'Twas  a  town,  before  the  late  vigorous  measures 
of  the  French  King,  full  of  Protestants,  and  here  your  nurse's 
father,  old  Pastoureau,  he  with  whom  you  afterwards  lived  at 
Ealing,  adopted  the  reformed  doctrines,  perverting  all  his  house 
with  him.  They  were  expelled  thence  by  the  edict  of  his  Most 
Christian  Majesty,  and  came  to  London,  and  set  up  their  looms  in 
Spittlefields.  The  old  man  brought  a  little  money  with  him,  and 
carried  on  his  trade,  but  in  a  poor  way.  He  was  a  widower ;  by 
this  time  his  daughter,  a  widow  too,  kept  house  for  him,  and  his 
son  and  he  laboured  together  at  their  vocation.  Meanwhile  your 
father  had  publicly  owned  his  conversion  just  before  King  Charles's 
death  (in  whom  our  Church  had  much  such  another  convert),  was 
reconciled  to  my  Lord  Viscount  Castle  wood,  and  married,  as  you 
know,  to  his  daughter. 

"It  chanced  that  the  j^ounger  Pastoureau,  going  with  a  piece  of 
brocade  to  the  mercer  who  employed  him,  on  Ludgate  Hill,  met  his 
old  rival  coming  out  of  an  ordinary  there.  Pastoureau  knew  your 
father  at  once,  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  upbraided  him  as  a  vil- 
lain, who  had  seduced  his  mistress,  and  afterwards  deserted  her  and 
her  son.     Mr.  Thomas  Esmond  also  recognised  Pastoureau  at  once. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  333 

besought  him  to  calm  his  indignation,  and  not  to  bring  a  crowd 
round  about  them ;  and  bade  him  to  enter  into  the  tavern,  out  of 
which  he  had  just  stepped,  when  he  would  give  him  any  explana- 
tion. Pastoureau  entered,  and  heard  the  landlord  order  the  drawer 
to  show  Captain  Thomas  to  a  room ;  it  was  by  his  Christian  name 
that  your  father  was  familiarly  called  at  his  tavern  haunts,  which, 
to  say  the  truth,  were  none  of  the  most  reputable. 

"I  must  tell  you  that  Captain  Thomas,  or  my  Lord  Viscount 
afterwards,  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  story,  and  could  cajole  a 
woman  or  a  dun  with  a  volubility,  and  an  air  of  simplicity  at  the 
same  time,  of  which  many  a  creditor  of  his  has  been  the  dupe. 
Kis  tales  used  to  gather  verisimilitude  as  he  went  on  with  them. 
He  strung  together  fact  after  fact  with  a  wonderful  rapidity  and 
coherence.  It  required,  saving  your  presence,  a  very  long  habit  of 
acquaintance  with  your  father  to  know  when  his  Lordship  was 
I ,  — telling  the  truth  or  no. 

"He  told  me  with  rueful  remorse  when  he  was  ill — for  the  fear 
of  death  set  him  instantly  repenting,  and  with  shrieks  of  laughter 
when  he  was  well,  his  Lordship  having  a  very  great  sense  of 
humour — how  in  half-an-hour's  time,  and  before  a  bottle  was 
drunk,  he  had  completely  succeeded  in  biting  poor  Pastoureau. 
The  seduction  he  owned  to :  that  he  could  not  help :  he  was  quite 
ready  with  tears  at  a  moment's  warning,  and  shed  them  profusely 
to  melt  his  credulous  listener.  He  wept  for  your  mother  even 
more  than  Pastoureau  did,  who  cried  very  heartily,  poor  fellow,  as 
my  Lord  informed  me;  he  swore  upon  his  honour  that  he  had  twice 
sent  money  to  Brussels,  and  mentioned  the  name  of  the  merchant 
with  whom  it  was  lying  for  poor  Gertrude's  use.  He  did  not  even 
know  whether  she  had  a  child  or  no,  or  whether  she  was  alive  or 
dead ;  but  got  these  facts  easily  out  of  honest  Pastoureau's  answers 
to  him.  When  he  heard  that  she  was  in  a  convent,  he  said  he  hoped 
to  end  his  days  in  one  himself,  should  he  survive  his  wife,  whom  he 
hated,  and  had  been  forced  by  a  cruel  father  to  marry ;  and  when 
he  was  told  that  Gertrude's  son  was  alive,  and  actually  in  London, 
'I  started,'  says  he;  'for  then,  damme,  my  wife  was  expecting  to 


334  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

lie-in,  and  I  thought  should  this  old  Put,  my  father-in-law,   run 
rusty,  here  would  be  a  good  chance  to  frighten  him. ' 

**He  expressed  the  deepest  gratitude  to  the  Pastoureau  family 
for  the  care  of  the  infant:  you  were  now  near  six  years  old;  and 
on  Pastoureau  bluntly  telling  him,  when  he  proposed  to  go  that 
instant  and  see  the  darling  child,  that  they  never  wished  to  see  his 
ill-omened  face  again  within  their  doors;  that  he  might  have  the 
bo}',  though  they  should  all  be  very  sorry  to  lose  him ;  and  that 
they  would  take  his  money,  they  being  poor,  if  he  gave  it ;  or  bring 
him  up,  by  God's  help,  as  they  had  hitherto  done,  without:  he 
acquiesced  in  this  at  once,  with  a  sigh,  said,  'Well,  'twas  better 
that  the  dear  child  should  remain  with  friends  who  had  been  so 
admirably  kind  to  him ;'  and  in  his  talk  to  me  afterwards,  honestly 
praised  and  admired  the  weaver's  conduct  and  spirit;  owned  that 
the  Frenchman  was  a  right  fellow,  and  he,  the  Lord  have  mercy 
upon  him,  a  sad  villain. 

"Your  father,"  Mr.  Holt  went  on  to  say,  'Svas  good-natured 
with  his  money  when  he  had  it;  and  having  that  day  received  a 
supply  from  his  uncle,  gave  the  weaver  ten  pieces  with  perfect 
freedom,  and  promised  him  further  remittances.  He  took  down 
eagerly  Pastoureau's  name  and  place  of  abode  in  his  table-book, 
and  when  the  other  asked  him  for  his  own,  gave,  with  the  utmost 
readiness,  his  name  as  Captain  Thomas,  New  Lodge,  Penzance, 
Cornwall ;  he  said  he  was  in  London  for  a  few  days  only  on  busi- 
ness connected  with  his  wife's  property;  described  her  as  a  shrew, 
though  a  woman  of  kind  disposition ;  and  depicted  his  father  as  a 
Cornish  squire,  in  an  infirm  state  of  health,  at  whose  death  he 
hoped  for  something  handsome,  when  he  promised  richly  to  reward 
the  admirable  protector  of  his  child,  and  to  provide  for  the  boy. 
'And  by  Gad,  sir,'  he  said  to  me  in  his  strange  laughing  way,  'I 
ordered  a  piece  of  brocade  of  the  very  same  pattern  as  that  which 
the  fellow  was  carrying,  and  presented  it  to  my  wife  for  a  morning 
wrapper,  to  receive  company  after  she  lay-in  of  our  little  boy. ' 

"Your  little  pension  was  paid  regularly  enough;  and  when  your 
father  became  Viscount  Castlewood  on  his  uncle's  demise,  I  was 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  335 

employed  to  keep  a  watch  over  you,  and  'twas  at  my  instance  that 
you  were  brought  home.  Your  foster-mother  was  dead ;  her  father 
made  acquaintance  with  a  woman  whom  he  married,  who  quar- 
relled with  his  son.  The  faithful  creature  came  back  to  Brussels  to 
be  near  the  woman  he  loved,  and  died,  too,  a  few  months  before 
her.  Will  you  see  her  cross  in  the  convent  cemetery?  The  Supe- 
rior is  an  old  penitent  of  mine,  and  remembers  Soeur  Marie  Made- 
leine fondly  still." 

Esmond  came  to  this  spot  in  one  sunny  evening  of  spring,  and 
saw,  amidst  a  thousand  black  crosses,  casting  their  shadows  across 
the  grassy  mounds,  that  particular  one  which  marked  his  mother's 
resting-place.  Many  more  of  those  poor  creatures  that  lay  there 
had  adopted  that  same  name,  with  which  sorrovv-  had  rebaptized  her, 
and  which  fondly  seemed  to  hint  their  individual  story  of  love  and 
grief.  He  fancied  her  in  tears  and  darkness,  kneeling  at  the  foot  of 
her  cross,  under  which  her  cares  were  buried.  Surely  he  knelt 
down,  and  said  his  own  prayer  there,  not  in  sorrow  so  much  as  in 
awe  (for  even  his  memory  had  no  recollection  of  her),  and  in  pity 
for  the  pangs  which  the  gentle  soul  in  life  had  been  made  to 
suffer.  To  this  cross  she  brought  them;  for  this  heavenly  bride- 
groom she  exchanged  the  husband  who  had  wooed  her,  the  traitor 
who  had  left  her.  A  thousand  such  hillocks  lay  round  about,  the 
gentle  daisies  springing  out  of  the  grass  over  them,  and  each  bear- 
ing its  cross  and  requiescat.  x\  nun,  veiled  in  black,  was  kneeling 
hard  by,  at  a  sleeping  sister's  bedside  (so  fresh  made,  that  the 
sirring  had  scarce  had  time  to  spin  a  coverlid  for  it) ;  beyond  the 
cemetery  walls  you  had  glimpses  of  life  and  the  world,  and  the 
spires  and  gables  of  the  city.  A  bird  came  down  from  a  roof  oppo- 
site, and  lit  first  on  a  cross,  and  then  on  the  grass  below  it,  whence 
it  flew  away  presently  with  a  leaf  in  its  mouth:  then  came  a  sound 
as  of  chanting,  from  the  chapel  of  the  sisters  hard  by;  others  had 
long  since  filled  the  place  which  poor  Mary  Magdalene  once  had 
there,  were  kneeling  at  the  same  stall,  and  hearing  the  same 
hymns  and  prayers  in  which  her  stricken  heart  had  found  consola- 


336  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEiNRY  ESMOND 

tion.  Might  she  sleep  in  peace — might  she  sleep  in  peace ;  and  we, 
too,  when  our  struggles  and  pains  are  over !  But  the  earth  is  the 
Lord's  as  the  heaven  is;  we  are  alike  His  creatures  here  and  yon- 
der, I  took  a  little  flower  off  the  hillock  and  kissed  it,  and  went 
my  way,  like  the  bird  that  had  just  lighted  on  the  cross  by  me, 
back  into  the  world  again.  Silent  receptacle  of  death;  tranquil 
depth  of-  calm,  out  of  reach  of  tempest  and  trouble !  I  felt  as  one 
who  had  been  walking  below  the  sea,  and  treading  amidst  the 
bones  of  shipwrecks. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  CAMPAIGN  OF    1707,    1708 

During  the  whole  of  the  year  which  succeeded  that  in  which 
the  glorious  battle  of  Ramillies  had  been  fought,  our  army  made 
no  movement  of  importance,  much  to  the  disgust  of  very  many  of 
our  officers  remaining  inactive  in  Flanders,  who  said  that  his  Grace 
the  Captain-General  had  had  fighting  enough,  and  was  all  for 
money  now,  and  the  enjoyment  of  his  five  thousand  a  year  and  his 
splendid  palace  at  Woodstock,  which  was  now  being  built.  And 
his  Grace  had  sufficient  occupation  fighting  his  enemies  at  home 
this  year,  where  it  began  to  be  whispered  that  his  favour  was 
decreasing,  and  his  Duchess  losing  her  hold  on  the  Queen,  who  was 
transferring  her  royal  affections  to  the  famous  Mrs.  Masham,  and 
Mrs.  Masham's  humble  servant,  Mr.  Harley.  Against  their 
intrigues,  our  Duke  passed  a  great  part  of  his  time  intriguing.  Mr. 
Harley  was  got  out  of  office,  and  his  Grace,  in  so  far,  had  a  victory. 
But  her  Majesty,  convinced  against  her  will,  was  of  that  opinion 
still,  of  which  the  poet  says  people  are  when  so  convinced,  and  Mr. 
Harley  before  long  had  his  revenge. 

Meanwhile  the  business  of  fighting  did  not  go  on  any  way  to  the 
satisfaction  of  Marlborough's  gallant  lieutenants.  During  all  1707, 
with  the  French  before  us,  we  had  never  so  much  as  a  battle;  our 
army  in  Spain  was  utterly  routed  at  Almanza  by  the  gallant  Duke 
of  Berwick;  and  we  of  Webb's,  which  regiment  the  young  Duke 
had  commanded  before  his  father's  abdication,  were  a  little  proud 
to  think  that  it  was  our  colonel  who  had  achieved  this  victory.  "I 
think  if  I  had  had  Galway's  place,  and  my  Fusi leers,"  says  our 
General,  "we  would  not  have  laid  down  our  arms,  even  to  our  old 
colonel,  as  Galway  did;"  and  Webb's  officers  swore  if  we  had  had 
Webb,  at  least  we  would  not  have  been  taken  prisoners.  Our  dear 
old  General  talked  incautiously  of  himself  and  of  others;  a  braver 

337 


338  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

or  a  more  brilliant  soldier  never  lived  than  he;  but  he  blew  his  hon- 
est trumpet  rather  more  loudly  tiian  became  a  commander  of  his 
station,  and,  mighty  man  of  valour  as  he  was,  shook  his  great  spear 
and  blustered  before  the  army  too  fiercely. 

Mysterious  Mr.  Holtz  went  off  on  a  secret  expedition  in  the 
early  part  of  1708,  with  great  elation  of  spirits  and  a  prophecy  to 
Esmond  that  a  wonderful  something  was  about  to  take  place  This 
secret  came  out  on  my  friend's  return  to  the  army,  whither  he 
brought  a  most  rueful  and  dejected  countenance,  and  owned  that 
the  great  something  he  had  been,.engaged  upon  had  failed  utterly. 
He  had  been  indeed  with  that  luckless  expedition  of  the  Chevalier 
de  St.  George,  who  was  sent  by  the  French  King  with  ships  and  an 
army  from  Dunkirk,  and  was  to  have  invaded  and  conquered  Scot- 
land. But  that  ill  wind  which  ever  opposed  all  the  projects  upon 
which  the  Prince  ever  embarked,  prevented  the  Chevalier's  inva- 
sion of  Scotland,  as  'tis  known,  and  blew  poor  Monsieur  von  Holtz 
back  into  our  camp  again,  to  scheme  and  foretell,  and  to  pry  about 
as  usual.  The  Chevalier  (the  King  of  England,  as  some  of  us  held 
him)  went  from  Dunkirk  to  the  French  army  to  make  the  cam- 
paign against  us.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy  had  the  command  this 
year,  having  the  Duke  of  Berry  with  him,  and  the  famous  Mare- 
schal  Vendosme  and  the  Duke  of  Matignon  to  aid  him  in  the  cam- 
paign. Holtz,  who  knew  everything  that  was  passing  in  Flanders 
and  France  (and  the  Indies  for  what  I  know),  insisted  that  there 
would  be  no  more  fighting  in  1708  than  there  had  been  in  the  pre- 
vious year,  and  that  our  commander  had  reasons  for  keeping  him 
quiet.  Indeed,  Esmond's  General,  who  was  known  as  a  grumbler, 
and  to  have  a  hearty  mistrust  of  the  great  Duke,  and  hundreds  more 
officers  besides,  did  not  scruple  to  say  that  these  private  reasons 
came  to  the  Duke  in  the  shape  of  crown-pieces  from  the  French 
King,  by  whom'tlie  Generalissimo  was  bribed  to  avoid  a  battle. 
There  were  plenty  of  men  in  our  lines,  quidnuncs,  to  whom  Mr 
Webb  listened  only  too  willingly,  wlio  could  specify  the  exact  sums 
the  Duke  got,  how  much  fell  to  Cadogan's  share,  and  what  was  the 
i^recise  fee  given  to  Doctor  Hare. 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  339 

And  the  successes  with  which  the  French  began  the  campaign 
of  1708  served  to  give  strength  to  these  reports  of  treason,  which 
were  in  everybody's  mouth.  Our  General  allowed  the  enemy  to 
get  between  us  and  Ghent,  and  declined  to  attack  him  though  for 
eight-and- forty  hours  the  armies  were  in  presence  of  each  other. 
Glient  was  taken,  and  on  the  same  day  Monsieur  de  la  Motlie  sum- 
moned Bruges;  and  these  two  great  cities  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
French  without  firing  a  shot.  A  few  days  afterwards  La  Mothe 
seized  upon  the  fort  of  Plashendall:  and  it  began  to  be  supposed 
that  all  Spanish  Flanders,  as  well  as  Brabant,  would  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  French  troops ;  when  the  Prince  Eugene  arrived  from 
the  xMozelle,  and  then  there  was  no  more  shilly-shallying. 

The  Prince  of  Savoy  always  signalised  his  arrival  at  the  army 
by  a  great  feast  (my  Lord  Duke's  entertainments  were  both  seldom 
and  shabb}^  ;  and  I  remember  our  General  returning  from  this  din- 
ner with  the  two  Commanders-in  Chief ;  his  honest  head  a  little 
excited  by  wine,  which  was  dealt  out  much  more  liberally  by  the 
Austrian  than  by  the  English  commander: — "Now,"  says  my  Gen- 
eral, slapping  the  table,  with  an  oath,  "he  must  fight;  and  when  he 

is  forced  to  it,  d it,  no  man  in  Europe  can  stand  up  against  Jack 

Churchill."  Within  a  week  the  battle  of  Oudenarde  was  fought, 
when,  hate  each  other  as  they  might,  Esmond's  General  and  the 
Commander-in-Chief  were  forced  to  admire  each  other,  so  splendid 
was  the  gallantry  of  each  upon  this  day. 

The  brigade  commanded   by  Major-General    Webb    gave  and 

received  about  as  hard  knocks  as  any  that  were  delivered  in  that 

action,  in  which  Mr.  Esmond  had  the  fortune  to  serve  at  the  head 

I  of  his  own  company  in  his  regiment,  under  the  command  of  their 

i  own  Colonel  as  Major-General;  and  it  was  his  good  luck  to  bring 

i   the  regiment  out  of  action  as  commander  of  it,  the  four  senior 

i   officers  above  him  being  killed  in  the  prodigious  slaughter  which 

I  happened  on  that  day.     I  like  to  think  that  Jack  Haythorn,  who 

sneered  at  me  for  being  a  bastard  and  a  parasite  of  Webb's,  as  he 

chose  to  call  me,  and  with  whom  I  had  had  words,  shook  hands 

with  me  the  day  before  the  battle  begun.     Three  days  before,  poor 


340  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Brace, our  Lieutenant-Colonel,  had  heard  of  his  elder  brother's  death, 
and  was  heir  to  a  baronetcy  in  Norfolk,  and  four  thousand  a  year. 
Fate,  that  had  left  him  harmless  through  a  dozen  campaigns,  seized 
on  him  just  as  the  world  was  worth  living  for,  and  he  went  into 
action  knowing,  as  he  said,  that  the  luck  was  going  to  turn  against 
him.  The  Major  had  just  joined  us — a  creature  of  Lord  Marlbor- 
ough, f)ut  in  much  to  the  dislike  of  the  other  officers,  and  to  be  a 
spy  upon  us,  as  it  was  said.  I  know  not  whether  the  truth  was  so, 
nor  who  took  tlie  tattle  of  our  mess  to  headquarters,  but  Webb's 
regiment,  as  its  Colonel,  was  known  to  be  in  the  Commander-in 
Chief's  black  books:  "And  if  he  did  not  dare  to  break  it  up  at 
home,"  our  gallant  old  chief  used  to  say,  "he  was  determined  to 
destroy  it  before  the  enemy;"  so  that  poor  Major  Proudfoot  was  put 
into  a  post  of  danger. 

Esmond's  dear  young  Viscount,  serving  as  aide-de-camp  to  my 
Lord  Duke,  received  a  wound,  and  won  an  honourable  name  for 
himself  in  the  Gazette;  and  Captain  Esmond's  name  was  sent  in 
for  promotion  by  his  General,  too,  whose  favourite  he  was.  It 
made  his  heart  beat  to  think  that  certain  eyes  at  home,  the  bright- 
est in  the  world,  might  read  the  page  on  which  his  humble  services 
were  recorded ;  but  his  mind  was  made  up  steadily  to  keep  out  of 
their  dangerous  influence,  and  to  let  time  and  absence  conquer  that 
passion  he  had  still  lurking  about  him.  Away  from  Beatrix,  it  did 
not  trouble  him ;  but  he  knew  as  certain  that  if  he  returned  home, 
his  fever  would  break  out  again,  and  avoided  Walcote  as  a  Lincoln- 
shire man  avoids  returning  to  his  fens,  where  he  is  sure  that  the 
ague  is  lying  in  wait  for  him. 

We  of  the  English  party  in  the  army,  who  were  inclined  to 
sneer  at  everything  that  came  out  of  Hanover,  and  to  treat  as  little 
better  than  boors  and  savages  the  Elector's  Court  and  family,  were 
yet  forced  to  confess  that,  on  the  day  of  Oudenarde,  the  young 
Electoral  Prince,  then  making  his  first  campaign,  conducted  him- 
self with  the  spirit  and  courage  of  an  approved  soldier.  On  this 
occasion  his  Electoral  Highness  had  better  luck  than  the  King  of 
England,  who  was  with  his  cousins  in  the  enemy's  camp,  and  had 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  341 

to  run  with  them  at  the  ignominious  end  of  the  day.  With  the 
most  consummate  generals  in  the  world  before  them,  and  an 
admirable  commander  on  their  own  side,  they  chose  to  neglect  the 
counsels,  and  to  rush  into  a  combat  with  the  former,  which  would 
have  ended  in  the  utter  annihilation  of  their  army  but  for  the 
great  skill  and  bravery  of  the  Duke  of  Vendosme,  who  remedied,  as 
far  as  courage  and  genius  might,  the  disasters  occasioned  by  the 
squabbles  and  follies  of  his  kinsmen,  the  legitimate  princes  of  the 
blood  royal. 

"If  the  Duke  of  Berwick  had  but  been  in  the  army,  the  fate  of 
the  day  would  have  been  very  diifei'ent,"  was  all  that  poor  Mr.  von 
Holtz  could  say;  "and  you  would  have  seen  that  the  hero  of 
Alinanza  was  fit  to  measure  swords  with  the  conqueror  of  Blen- 
heim." 

The  business  relative  to  the  exchange  of  prisoners  was  always 
going  on,  and  was  at  least  that  ostensible  one  which  kept  Mr.  Holtz 
perpetually  on  the  move  between  the  forces  of  the  French  and  the 
Allies.  I  can  answer  for  it,  that  he  was  once  very  near  hanged  as 
a  spy  by  Major-General  Wayne,  wiien  he  was  released  and  sent  on 
to  headquarters  by  a  special  order  of  the  Comaiander-in-chief.  He 
came  and  went,  always  favoured,  wherever  he  w^as,  by  some  high 
though  occult  protection.  He  carried  messages  between  the  Duke 
of  Berwick  and  his  uncle,  our  Duke.  He  seemed  to  know  as  well 
what  was  taking  place  in  the  Prince's  quarter  as  our  own:  he 
brought  the  compliments  of  the  King  of  England  to  some  of  our 
officers,  the  gentlemen  of  Webb's  among  the  rest,  for  their  behav- 
iour on  that  great  day;  and  after  Wynendael,  when  our  General 
was  chafing  at  the  neglect  of  our  Commander-in-Chief,  he  said  he 
knew  how  that  action  was  regarded  by  the  chiefs  of  the  French 
army,  and  that  the  stand  made  before  Wynendael  wood  was  the 
passage  by  which  the  Allies  entered  Lille. 

"Ah!"  says  Holtz  (and  some  folks  were  very  willing  to  listen  to 
him),  "if  the  King  came  by  his  own,  hov^^  changed  the  conduct  of 
affairs  would  be!  His  Majesty's  very  exile  has  this  advantage,  that 
lie  is  enabled  to  read  Englatd  impartially,  and  to  judge  honestJy  of 


342  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

all  the  eminent  men.  His  sister  is  always  in  the  hand  of  one 
greedy  favourite  or  another,  through  whose  eyes  she  sees,  and  to  ; 
whose  flattery  or  dependants  she  gives  away  everything.  Do  you 
suppose  that  his  Majesty,  knowing  England  so  well  as  he  does, 
would  neglect  such  a  man  as  General  Webb?  He  ought  to  be  in 
the  House  of  Peers  as  Lord  Lydiard.  The  enemy  and  all  Europe 
know  his  merit;  it  is  that  very  reputation  which  certain  great 
people,  who  hate  all  equality  and  independence,  can  never  par- 
don." It  was  intended  that  these  conversations  should  be  carried  to 
Mr.  Webb.  They  were  welcome  to  him,  for  great  as  his  services 
were,  no  man  could  value  them  more  than  John  Richmond  Webb 
did  himself,  and  the  differences  between  him  and  Marlborough 
being  notorious,  his  Grace's  enemies  in  the  army  and  at  home 
began  to  court  Webb,  and  set  him  up  against  the  all-grasping,  dom- 
ineering chief.  And  soon  after  the  victory  of  Oudenarde,  a  glo- 
rious opportunity  fell  into  General  Webb's  way,  which  that  gallant 
warrior  did  not  neglect,  and  which  gave  him  the  means  of 
immensely  increasing  his  reputation  at  home. 

After  Oudenarde,  and  against  the  counsels  of  Marlborough,  it 
was  said,  the  Prince  of  Savoy  sat  down  before  Lille,  the  capital  of  ] 
French  Flanders,  and  commenced  that  siege,  the  most  celebrated 
of  our  time,  and  almost  as  famous  as  the  siege  of  Troy  itself  for  the 
feats  of  valour  performed  in  the  assault  and  the  defence.  The 
enmity  of  the  Prince  of  Savoy  against  the  French  King  was  a 
furious  personal  hate,  quite  unlike  the  calm  hostility  of  our  great 
English  General,  who  was  no  more  moved  by  the  game  of  war  than 
that  of  billiards,  and  pushed  forward  his  squadrons,  and  drove  his 
red  battalions  hither  and  thither,  as  calmly  as  he  would  combine  a  I 
stroke  or  make  a  cannon  with  the  balls.  The  game  over  (and  he 
played  it  so  as  to  be  pretty  sure  to  win  it),  not  the  least  animosity 
against  the  other  party  remained  in  the  breast  of  this  consummate 
tactician.  Whereas  between  the  Prince  of  Savoy  and  the  French  it;  ' 
was  guerre  a  mort.  Beaten  off  in  one  quarter,  as  he  had  been  in 
Toulon  in  the  last  year,  he  was  back  again  on  another  frontier  of 
France,  assailing  it  with  his  indefatigable  f'U-y.     When  the  Prince 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  343 

came  to  the  armj^  the  smouldering  fires  of  war  were  lighted  up  and 
burst  out  into  a  flame.  Our  phlegmatic  Dutch  allies  were  made  to 
advance  at  a  quick  march — our  calm  Duke  forced  into  action.  The 
Prince  was  an  army  in  himself  against  the  French ;  the  energy  of 
his  hatred,  prodigious,  indefatigable — infectious  over  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  men.  The  Emperor's  General  was  repaying,  and  vvnth 
a  vengeance,  the  slight  the  French  King  had  put  upon  the  fiery 
little  Abbe  of  Savoy.  Brilliant  and  famous  as  a  leader  himself,  and 
beyond  all  measure  daring  and  intrepid,  and  enabled  to  cope  with 
almost  the  best  of  those  famous  men  of  war  who  commanded  the 
armies  of  the  French  King,  Eugene  had  a  weapon,  the  equal  of 
which  could  not  be  found  in  France  since  the  cannon-shot  of 
Sasbach  laid  low  the  noble  Turenne,  and  could  hurl  Marlborough  at 
the  heads  of  the  French  host,  and  crush  them  as  with  a  rock,  under 
which  all  the  gathered  strength  of  their  strongest  captains  must  go 
down. 

The  English  Duke  took  little  part  in  that  vast  siege  of  Lille,  which 
the  Imperial  Generalissimo  pursued  with  all  his  force  and  vigour, 
further  than  to  cover  the  besieging  lines  from  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy's army,  between  which  and  the  Imperialists  our  Duke 
lay.  Once,  when  Prince  Eugene  was  wounded,  our  Duke  took 
his  Highness's  place  in  the  trenches:  but  the  siege  w^as  with  the 
Imperialists,  not  with  us.  A  division  under  Webb  and  Rantzau 
was  detached  into  Artois  and  Picardy  upon  the  most  painful  and 
odious  service  that  Mr.  Esmond  ever  saw  in  the  course  of  his  mili- 
tary life.  The  wretched  towns  of  the  defenceless  provinces,  whose 
young  men  had  been  drafted  away  into  the  French  armies,  which 
year  after  year  the  insatiable  war  devoured,  were  left  at  our  mercy : 
and  our  orders  were  to  show  them  none.  We  found  places  garri- 
soned by  invalids,  and  children  and  women ;  poor  as  they  were, 
and  as  the  costs  of  this  miserable  war  had  made  them,  our  commis- 
sion was  to  rob  these  almost  starving  wretches — to  tear  the  food 
out  of  their  granaries,  and  strip  them  of  their  rags.  'Twas  an  expe- 
dition of  rapine  and  murder  we  were  sent  on :  our  soldiers  did  deeds 
such  as  an  honest  man  must  blush  to  remember.     We  brought  back 


344  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

money  and  provisions  in  quantity  to  the  Duke's  camp;  there  had 
been  no  one  to  resist  us,  and  yet  wlio  dares  to  tell  with  what  mur- 
der and  violence,  with  what  brutal  cruelty,  outrage,  insult,  that 
ignoble  booty  had  been  ravished  from  the  innocent  and  miserable 
victims  of  the  war? 

Meanwhile,  gallantly  as  the  operations  before  Lille  had  been 
conducted,  the  Allies  had  made  but  little  progress,  and  'twas  said 
when  we  returned  to  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  camp,  that  the 
siege  would  never  be  brought  to  a  satisfactory  end,  and  that  the 
Prince  of  Savoy  would  be  forced  to  raise  it.  My  Lord  ^Marlborough 
gave  this  as  his  opinion  openly;  those  who  mistrusted  him,  and  Mr. 
Esmond  owns  himself  to  be  of  the  number,  hinted  that  the  Duke 
had  his  reasons  why  Lille  should  not  be  taken,  and  that  he  vras 
paid  to  that  end  by  the  French  King.  If  this  was  so,  and  I  believe 
it,  General  Webb  had  now  a  remarkable  opportunity  of  gratifying 
his  hatred  of  the  Commander-in-chief,  of  balking  that  shatneful 
avarice,  which  was  one  of  the  basest  and  most  notorious  qualities 
of  the  famous  Duke,  and  of  showing  his  own  consummate  skill  as  a 
commander.  And  when  I  consider  all  the  circumstances  preceding 
the  event  which  will  now  be  related,  that  my  Lord  Duke  was  actually 
offered  certain  millions  of  crowns  provided  that  the  siege  of  Lille 
should  be  raised ;  that  the  Imperial  army  before  it  was  without  pro- 
visions and  ammunition,  and  must  have  decamped  but  for  the  sup- 
plies that  they  received;  that  the  march  of  the  convoy  destined  to 
relieve  the  siege  was  accurately  known  to  the  French;  and  that  the 
force  covering  it  was  shamefully  inadequate  to  that  end,  and  by  six 
times  inferior  to  Count  de  la  Mothers  army,  which  was  sent  to  inter- 
cept the  convoy;  when  'tis  certain  that  the  Duke  of  Berwick,  De  la 
Mothe's  chief,  was  in  constant  correspondence  with  his  uncle,  the 
English  Generalissimo:  I  believe  on  my  conscience  that  'twas  my 
Lord  Marlborough's  intention  to  prevent  those  supplies,  of  which 
the  Prince  of  Savoy  stood  in  absolute  need,  from  ever  reaching  his 
Highness;  that  he  meant  to  sacrifice  the  little  army  which  covered 
this  convoy,  and  to  betray  it  as  he  had  betrayed  ToUemache  at 
Brest ;  as  he  had  betrayed  every  friend  he  had,  to  further  his  own 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  345 

schemes  of  avarice  or  ambition.  But  for  the  miraculous  victory 
which  Esmond's  General  won  over  an  army  six  or  seven  times 
greater  than  his  own,  the  siege  of  Lille  must  have  been  raised;  and 
it  must  be  remembered  that  our  gallant  little  force  was  under  the 
command  of  a  general  whom  Marlborough  hated,  that  he  was  furi- 
ous with  the  conqueror,  and  tried  afterwards  by  the  most  open  and 
shameless  injustice  to  rob  him  of  the  credit  of  his  victory. 


CHAPTER  XV 

GEI-T^RAL   WEBB   WINS   THE   BATTLE   OF    WYNEXDAEL 

Bv  the  besiegers  and  besieged  of  Lille,  some  of  the  most  brilliant 
teats  of  valour  were  performed  that  ever  illustrated  any  war.  On 
the  French  side  (whose  gallantry  was  prodigious,  the  skill  and 
bravery  of  Marshal  Boufflers  actually  eclipsing  those  of  his  con- 
queror, the  Prince  of  Savoy)  may  be  mentioned  that  daring  action 
of  Messieurs  de  Luxembourg  and  Tournefort,  who,  with  a  body  of 
horse  and  dragoons,  carried  i^owder  into  the  town,  of  which  the 
besieged  were  in  extreme  want,  each  soldier  bringing  a  bag  with 
forty  pounds  of  powder  behind  him;  with  which  perilous  provision 
they  engaged  our  own  horse,  faced  the  fire  of  the  foot  brought  out 
to  meet  them :  and  though  half  of  the  men  were  blown  up  in  the 
dreadful  errand  they  rode  on,  a  part  of  them  got  into  the  town 
with  the  succours  of  which  the  garrison  was  so  much  in  want.  A 
French  officer.  Monsieur  du  Bois,  performed  an  act  equally  daring, 
and  perfectly  successful.  The  Duke's  great  army  lying  at  Helchin, 
and  covering  the  siege,  and  it  being  necessary  for  M.  de  Vendosme 
to  get  news  of  the  condition  of  the  place,  Captain  du  Bois  per- 
formed his  famous  exploit ;  not  only  passing  through  the  lines  of 
tlie  siege,  but  swimming  afterwards  no  less  than  seven  moats  and 
ditches:  and  coming  back  the  same  way,  syv-^imming  with  his  letters 
in  his  mouth. 

By  these  letters  Monsieur  de  Boufflers  said  that  he  could  under- 
take to  hold  the  place  till  October;  and  that  if  one  of  the  convoys 
of  tlie  Allies  could  be  intercepted,  they  must  raise  the  siege  alto- 
gether. 

Such  a  convoy  as  hath  been  said  was  now  prepared  at  Ostend, 
and  about  to  march  for  the  siege ;  and  on  the  27th  September  we 
(and  the    French  too)  had  news  that  it  was  on  its  way.     It  was 

346 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  347 

composed  of  700  waggons,  containing  ammunition  of  all  sorts,  and 
was  escorted  out  of  Ostend  by  2000  infantry  and  300  horse.  At  the 
same  time  M.  de  la  Mothe  quitted  Bruges,  having  with  him  five- 
and-thirty  battalions,  and  upwards  of  sixty  squadrons  and  forty 
guns,  in  pursuit  of  the  convoy. 

Major-General  Webb  had  meanwhile  made  up  a  force  of  twenty 
battalions  and  three  squadrons  of  dragoons  at  Turout,  whence  he 
moved  to  cover  the  convoy  and  pursue  La  Mothe:  with  whose 
advanced  guard  ours  came  up  upon  the  great  plain  of  Turout,  and 
before  the  little  wood  and  castle  of  Wynendael;  behind  which  the 
convoy  was  marching. 

As  soon  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  enemy,  our  advanced  troops 
were  halted,  with  the  wood  behind  them,  and  the  rest  of  our  force 
brought  up  as  quickly  as  possible,  our  little  body  of  horse  being 
brought  forward  to  the  opening  of  the  plain,  as  our  General  said,  to 
amuse  the  enemy.  When  M.  de  la  Mothe  came  up,  he  found  us 
posted  in  two  lines  in  front  of  the  wood ;  and  formed  his  own  army 
in  battle  facing  ours,  in  eight  lines,  four  of  infantry  in  front,  and 
dragoons  and  cavalry  behind. 

The  French  began  the  action,  as  usual,  with  a  cannonade  which 
lasted  three  hours,  when  they  made  their  attack,  advancing  in 
eight  lines,  four  of  foot  and  four  of  horse,  upon  the  allied  troops  in 
the  wood  where  we  were  posted.  Their  infantry  behaved  ill:  they 
were  ordered  to  charge  with  the  bayonet,  but,  instead,  began  to  fire, 
and  almost  at  the  very  first  discharge  from  our  men,  broke  and  fled. 
The  cavalry  behaved  better ;  with  these  alone,  who  were  three  or 
four  times  as  numerous  as  our  whole  force,  jMonsieur  de  la  Mothe 
might  have  won  victory:  but  only  two  of  our  battalions  were 
shaken  in  the  least;  and  these  speedily  rallied:  nor  could  the 
repeated  attacks  of  the  French  horse  cause  our  troops  to  budge  an 
inch  from  the  position  in  the  wood  in  which  our  General  had  placed 
them. 

After  attacking  for  two  hours,  the  French  retired  at  nightfall 
entirely  foiled.  With  all  the  loss  we  had  inflicted  upon  him,  the 
enemy  was  still  three  times  stronger  than  we:  and  it  could  not  be 


348  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

supposed  that  our  General  could  pursue  M.  de  la  Mothe,  or  do  much 
more  than  hold  our  ground  about  the  wood,  from  wliich  the 
Frenchmen  had  in  vain  attempted  to  dislodge  us.  La  Mothe  retired 
behind  his  forty  guns,  his  cavalry  protecting  tlieni  better  than  it 
had  been  able  to  annoy  us;  and  meanwhile  the  convoy,  wliich  was 
of  more  importance  than  all  our  little  force,  and  the  safe  passage  of 
which  we  would  have  dropped  to  the  last  man  to  accomplish, 
marched  away  in  perfect  safet}'  during  the  action,  and  joyfully 
reached  the  besieging  camp  before  Lille. 

Major-General  Cadogan,  my  Lord  Duke's  Quartermaster-General 
(and  between  whom  and  Mr.  Webb  there  was  no  love  lost),  accom- 
panied the  convoy,  and  joined  Mr.  Webb  with  a  couple  of  hundred 
horse  just  as  the  battle  w^as  over,  and  the  enemy  in  full  retreat. 
He  offered,  readily  enough,  to  charge  with  his  horse  upon  the 
French  as  they  fell  back;  but  his  force  was  too  weak  to  inflict  any 
damage  upon  them;  and  Mr.  Webb,  commanding  as  Cadogan's 
senior,  thought  enough  was  done  in  holding  our  ground  before  an 
enemy  that  might  still  have  overwhelmed  us  had  we  engaged  him 
in  the  open  territory,  and  in  securing  the  safe  passage  of  the  con- 
voy. Accordingly,  the  horse  brought  up  by  Cadogan  did  not  draw 
a  sword;  and  only  prevented,  by  the  good  countenance  they 
showed,  any  disposition  the  French  might  Jiave  had  to  renew  the 
attack  on  us.  And  no  attack  coming,  at  nightfall  General  Cadogan 
drew  oflf  with  his  squadron,  being  bound  for  headquarters,  the  two 
Generals  at  parting  grimly  saluting  each  other. 

"He  will  be  at  Roncq  time  enough  to  lick  my  Lord  Duke's 
trenchers  at  supper, ' '  says  Mr.  Webb. 

Our  own  men  lay  out  in  the  woods  of  Wynendael  that  night, 
and  our  General  had  his  supper  in  the  little  castle  there. 

"If  I  was  Cadogan,  I  would  have  a  peerage  for  this  day's  work," 
General  Webb  said ;  "and,  Harry,  thou  shouldst  have  a  regiment. 
Thou  hast  been  reported  in  the  last  two  actions;  thou  wert  near 
killed  in  the  first.  I  shall  mention  thee  in  my  despatch  to  his 
Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief,  and  recommend  thee  to  poor  Dick 
Harwood's  vacant  majority.     Have  you  ever  a  hundred  guineas  to 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  349 

give  Cardonnel?  Slip  them  into  his  hand  to-morrow,  when  you  go 
to  headquarters  with  my  report." 

In  this  report  the  Major-General  was  good  enough  to  mention 
Captain  Esmond's  name  with  particular  favour;  and  that  gentle- 
man carried  the  despatch  to  headquarters  the  next  day,  and  was 
not  a  little  pleased  to  bring  back  a  letter  by  his  Grace's  secretary, 
addressed  to  Lieutenant-General  Webb.  The  Dutch  officer  despatched 
by  Count  Nassau  Woudenbourg,  Vaslt-Mareschal  Auverquerque's 
son,  brought  back  also  a  complimentary  letter  to  his  commander, 
who  had  seconded  Hr.  Webb  in  the  action  with  great  valour  and 
skill. 

Esmond,  with  a  low  bow  and  a  smiling  face,  presented  his 
despatch,  and  saluted  Mr.  Webb  as  Lieutenant-General,  as  he  gave 
it  in.  The  gentlemen  round  about  him — he  was  riding  with  his 
suite  on  the  road  to  Menin  as  Esmond  came  up  with  him — gave  a 
cheer,  and  he  thanked  them,  and  opened  the  despatch  with  rather 
a  flushed,  eager  face. 

He  slapped  it  down  on  his  boot  in  a  rage  after  he  had  read  it. 
"  'Tis  not  even  writ  with  his  own  hand.  Read  it  out,  Esmond. "  And 
Esmond  read  it  out : — 

"Sir, — Mr.  Cadogan  is  just  now  come  in,  and  has  acquainted  me 
with  the  success  of  the  action  you  had  yesterday  in  the  afternoon 
against  the  body  of  troops  commanded  by  M.  de  la  Mothe,  at 
Wynendael,  which  must  be  attributed  chiefly  to  your  good  conduct 
and  resolution.  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  do  you  justice  at  home, 
and  be  glad  on  all  occasions  to  own  the  service  you  have  done  in 
securing  this  convoy. — Yours,  &c.,  M." 

"Two  lines  by  that  d d  Cardonnel,  and  no  more,  for  the  tak- 
ing of  Lille — for  beating  five  times  our  number — for  an  action  as 
brilliant  as  the  best  he  ever  fought,"  says  poor  Mr.  Webb.  "Lieu- 
tenant-General! That's  not  his  doing.  I  was  the  oldest  major- 
general.     By ,  I  believe  he  had  been  better  pleased  if  I  had 

been  beat." 


350  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

The  letter  to  the  Dutch  officer  was  in  French,  and  longer  and 
more  complimentary  than  that  to  Mr.  Webb 

"And  this  is  the  man,"  he  broke  out,  "that's  gorged  with  gold 
— that's  covered  with  titles  and  honours  that  we  won  for  him — and 
that  grudges  even  a  line  of  praise  to  a  comrade  in  arms!  Hasn't  he 
enough?  Don't  we  fight  that  he  may  roll  in  riches?  Well,  well, 
wait  for  the  Gazette,  gentlemen.  The  Queen  and  the  country  will 
do  us  justice  if  his  Grace  denies  it  us."  There  were  tears  of  rage 
in  the  brave  warrior's  eyes  as  he  spoke ;  and  he  daslied  them  off  his 
face  on  to  his  glove.  He  shook  his  fist  in  the  air.  "Oh,  by  the 
Lord!"  says  he,  "I  know  what  I  had  rather  have  than  a  peerage!" 

"And  what  is  that,  sir?''  some  of  them  asked. 

"I  had  rather  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  John  Churchill,  on 
a  fair  green  field,  and  only  a  pair  of  rapiers  between  my  shirt  and 
his " 

"Sir!"  interposes  one. 

"Tell  him  so!  I  know  that's  what  you  mean.  I  know  every 
word  goes  to  him  that's  dropped  from  every  general  officer's  mouth. 
I  don't  say  he's  not  brave.  Curse  him !  he's  brave  enough ;  but 
we'll  wait  for  the  Gazette,  gentlemen.  God  save  her  Majesty! 
she'll  do  us  justice." 

T\\Q  Gazette  did  not  come  to  us  till  a  month  afterwards;  when 
my  General  and  his  officers  had  the  honour  to  dine  with  Prince 
Eugene  in  Lille ;  his  Highness  being  good  enough  to  say  that  w^e 
had  brought  the  provisions,  and  ought  to  share  in  the  banquet. 
'Twas  a  great  banquet.  His  Grace  of  Marlborough  was  on  his 
Highness's  right,  and  on  his  left  the  Mareschal  de  Boufflers,  who 
had  so  bravely  defended  the  place.  Tlie  chief  officers  of  either 
army  were  present ;  and  you  may  be  sure  Esmond's  General  was 
splendid  this  day :  his  tall  noble  person,  and  manl}-  beauty  of  face, 
made  him  remarkable  any vrhere ;  he  wore,  for  the  first  time,  the  star 
of  the  Order  of  Generosity,  that  his  Prussian  Majesty  had  sent  to 
him  for  his  victory.  His  Highness  the  Prince  of  Savoy  called  a  I 
toast  to  the  conqueror  of  Wynendael.  My  Lord  Duke  drank  it  with 
rather  a  sickly  smile.     The  aides-de-camp  were  j^resent;  and  Harry 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  351 

Esmond  and  his  dear  young  lord  were  together,  as  they  always 
strove  to  be  when  duty  would  permit :  they  were  over  against  the 
table  where  the  generals  were,  and  could  see  all  that  passed  pretty 
well.  Frank  laughed  at  my  Lord  Duke's  glum  face :  the  affair  of 
Wynendael,  and  the  Captain-GeneraFs  conduct  to  Webb,  had  been 
the  talk  of  the  whole  army.  When  his  Highness  spoke,  and  gave, 
"Le  vainqueur  de  Wynendael;  son  armee  et  sa  victoire,"  adding, 
"qui  nous  font  diner  a  Lille  aujourd'huy" — there  was  a  great  cheer 
through  the  hall;  for  Mr.  Webb's  braverj^  generosity,  and  very 
weaknesses  of  character  caused  him  to  be  beloved  in  the  army. 

"Like  Hector,  handsome,  and  like  Paris,  brave!"  whispers  Frank 
Castle  wood.  "A  Venus,  an  elderly  Venus,  couldn't  refuse  him  a 
pippin.  Stand  up,  Harry!  See,  we  are  drinking  the  army  of 
Wynendael.     Ramillies  is  nothing  to  it.     Huzzay!  huzzay!" 

At  this  very  time,  and  just  after  our  General  had  made  his 
acknowledgment,  some  one  brought  in  an  English  Gazette — and  was 
passing  it  from  hand  to  hand  down  the  table.  Officers  were  eager 
enough  to  read  it ;  mothers  and  sisters  at  home  must  have  sickened 
over  it.  There  scarce  came  out  a  Gazette  for  six  years  that  did 
not  tell  of  some  heroic  death  or  some  brilliant  achievement, 

"Here  it  is — Action  of  Wynendael — here  you  are,  General,"  says 
Frank,  seizing  hold  of  the  little  dingy  paper  that  soldiers  love  to 
read  so;  and,  scrambling  over  from  our  bench,  he  went  to  where 
the  General  sat,  who  knew  him,  and  had  seen  many  a  time  at  his 
table  his  laughing,  handsome  face,  wliich  everybody  loved  who 
saw.  The  Generals  in  their  great  perukes  made  way  for  him.  He 
handed  the  paper  over  General  Dohna's  buff -coat  to  our  General  on 
the  opposite  side. 

He  came  hobbling  back,  and  blushing  at  his  feat:  "I  thought 
he'd  like  it,  Harry,"  the  young  fellow  whispered.  "Didn't  I  like  to 
read  my  name  after  Ramillies,  in  the  London  Gazette? — Viscount 
Castlewood  serving  a  volunteer I  say,  what's  yonder?" 

Mr.  Webb,  reading  the  Gazette,  looked  very  strange— slapped  it 
down  on  the  table — then  sprang  up  in  his  place,  and  began,  "Will 
your  Highness  please  to " 


352  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  here  jumped  up  too— 
''There's  some  mistake,  my  dear  General  Webb." 

"Your  Grace  had  better  rectify  it,"  says  Mr.  Webb,  holding  out 
the  letter;  but  he  was  five  off  his  Grace  the  Prince  Duke,  who, 
besides,  was  higher  than  the  General  (being  seated  with  the  Prince 
of  Savoy,  the  Electoral  Prince  of  Hanover,  and  the  envoys  of 
Prussia  and  Denmark,  under  a  baldaquin),  and  Webb  could  not 
reach  him,  tall  as  he  was. 

"Stay,"  says  he,  with  a  smile,  as  if  catching  at  some  idea,  and 
then,  with  a  perfect  courtesy,  drawing  his  sword,  he  ran  the 
Gazette  through  with  the  point,  and  said,  "Permit  me  to  hand  it  to 
your  Grace." 

The  Duke  looked  very  black.  "Take  it,"  says  he,  to  his  Master 
of  the  Horse,  who  was  waiting  behind  him. 

The  Lieutenant-General  made  a  very  low  bow,  and  retired  and 
finished  his  glass.  The  Gazette  in  which  Mr.  Cardonnel,  the  Duke's 
secretary,  gave  an  account  of  the  victory  of  Wynendael,  mentioned 
Mr.  Webb's  name,  but  gave  the  sole  praise  and  conduct  of  the 
action  to  the  Duke's  favourite,  Mr.  Cadogau. 

There  was  no  little  talk  and  excitement  occasioned  by  this 
strange  behaviour  of  General  Webb,  who  had  almost  drawn  a 
sword  upon  the  Commander-in-Chief;  but  the  General,  after  the 
first  outbreak  of  his  anger,  mastered  it  outwardly  altogether;  and, 
by  his  subsequent  behaviour,  had  the  satisfaction  of  even  more 
angering  the  Commander-in-Chief,  than  he  could  have  done  by  any 
public  exhibition  of  resentment. 

On  returning  to  his  quarters,  and  consulting  with  his  chief 
adviser,  Mr.  Esmond,  who  was  now  entirely  in  the  General's  con- 
fidence, and  treated  by  him  as  a  friend,  and  almost  a  son,  Mr.  Webb 
writ  a  letter  to  his  Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief,  in  which  he 
said : — 

"Your  Grace  must  be  aware  that  the  sudden  perusal  of  the  Lon- 
don Gazette,  in  which  your  Grace's  secretary,  Mr.  Cardonnel,  hath 
m,entioned  Major-General  Cadogan's  name  as  the  officer  command- 


THE   HISTORY   OF   HENRY   ESMOND  353 

ing  in  tlie  late  action  of  Wyuendael,  must  have  caused  a  feeling  of 
anything  but  pleasure  to  the  General  who  fought  that  action. 

"Your  Grace  must  be  avrare  that  Mr.  Cadogan  was  not  even 
present  at  the  battle,  though  he  arrived  with  squadrons  of  horse  at 
its  close,  and  put  himself  under  the  command  of  his  superior  offi- 
cer. And  as  the  result  of  the  battle  of  Wynendael,  in  which  Lieu- 
tenant-General  Webb  had  the  good  fortune  to  command,  was  the 
capture  of  Lille,  the  relief  of  Brussels,  then  invested  by  the  enemy 
under  the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  the  restoration  of  the  great  cities  of 
Ghent  and  Bruges,  of  which  the  enemy  (by  treason  within  the 
walls)  had  got  possession  in  the  jDrevious  year,  jMr.  AVebb  cannot 
consent  to  forego  the  honours  of  such  a  success  and  service,  for  the 
benefit  of  Mr.  Cadogan,  or  any  other  person. 

"As  soon  as  the  military  operations  of  the  year  are  over, 
Lieutenant-General  Webb  will  request  permission  to  leave  the 
army,  and  return  to  his  place  in  Parliament,  where  he  gives  notice 
to  his  Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief,  that  he  shall  lay  his  case 
before  the  House  of  Commons,  the  country,  and  her  Majesty  the 
Queen. 

'"By  his  eagerness  to  rectiiiy  that  false  statement  of  the  Gazette, 
which  had  been  written  by  his  Grace's  secretary,  Mr.  Cardonnel, 
Mr.  Webb,  not  being  able  to  reach  his  Grace  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  on  account  of  the  gentlemen  seated  between  them,  placed  the 
paper  containing  the  false  statement  on  his  sword,  so  that  it  might 
more  readily  arrive  in  the  hands  of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough, who  surely  would  wish  to  do  justice  to  every  officer  of  his 
army. 

'"Mr.  Webb  knows  his  duty  too  well  to  think  of  insubordination 
to  his  superior  officer,  or  of  using  his  sword  in  a  campaign  against 
any  but  the  enemies  of  her  Majesty.  He  solicits  permission  to 
return  to  England  immediately  the  military  duties  will  permit, 
and  take  with  him  to  England  Captain  Esmond,  of  his  regiment, 
who  acted  as  his  aide-de-camp,  and  was  present  during  the  entire 
action,  and  noted  by  his  watch  the  time  when  Mr.  Cadogan  arrived 
at  its  close." 


<jo4  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

The  Commander-in-Chief  could  not  but  grant  his  permission, 
nor  could  he  take  notice  of  Webb's  letter,  though  it  was  couched  in 
terms  the  most  insulting.  Half  the  army  believed  that  the  cities  of 
Ghent  and  Bruges  were  given  up  bj'  a  treason,  which  some  in  our 
army  very  well  understood;  that  the  Commander-in-Chief  would  not 
have  relieved  Lille,  if  he  could  have  helped  himself ;  that  he  vv'ould 
not  have  fought  that  year  had  not  the  Prince  of  Savoy  forced  him. 
When  the  battle  once  began,  then,  for  his  own  renown,  my  Lord 
Marlborough  would  fight  as  no  man  in  the  world  ever  fought 
better;  and  no  bribe  on  earth  could  keep  him  from  beating  the 
enem\\^ 

But  the  matter  was  taken  up  by  the  subordinates;  and  half  the 
army  might  have  been  by  the  ears,  if  the  quarrel  had  not  been 
stopped.  General  Cadogan  sent  an  intimation  to  General  Webb  to 
say  that  he  was  ready  if  Webb  liked,  and  would  meet  him.  This 
was  a  kind  of  invitation  our  stout  old  General  was  always  too  ready 
to  accept,  and  'twas  with  great  difficulty  we  got  the  General  to 
reply  that  he  had  no  quarrel  with  Mr.  Cadogan,  who  had  behaved 
with  perfect  gallantry,  but  only  with  those  at  headquarters,  who 
had  belied  him.  Mr.  Cardonnel  offered  General  Webb  reparation ; 
Mr.  Webb  said  he  had  a  cane  at  the  service  of  Mr.  Cardonnel,  and 
the  only  satisfaction  he  wanted  from  him  was  one  he  was  not  likely 
to  get,  namely,  the  truth.     The  officers  in  our  staff  of  Webb's,  and 

1  Our  grandfather's  hatred  of  the  Duke  of  Marlboroiigh  appears  all  through 
his  account  of  these  campaigns.  He  always  persisted  that  the  Duke  was  the 
greatest  traitor  and  soldier  histoiy  ever  told  of :  and  declared  that  he  took 
bribes  on  all  hands  during  the  war.  My  Lord  Marquis  (for  so  we  may  call  him 
here,  though  he  never  went  by  any  other  name  than  Colonel  Esmond)  was  in 
the  habit  of  telling  many  stories  which  he  did  not  set  down  in  his  memoirs,  and 
which  he  had  from  his  friend  the  Jesuit,  who  was  not  always  correctly  informed, 
and  who  persisted  that  Marlborough  was  looking  for  a  bribe  of  two  millions  of 
crowns  before  the  campaign  of  Ramillies. 

And  our  grandmother  used  to  tell  us  children,  that  on  his  first  presentation 
to  my  Lord  Duke,  the  Duke  turned  his  back  upon  my  grandfather;  and  said  to 
the  Duchess,  who  told  my  Lady  Dowager  at  Chelsey,  who  afterwards  told  Colonel 
Esmond:  "  Tom  Esmond's  bastard  has  been  to  mylev^e:  he  has  the  hangdog 
look  of  his  rogue  of  a  father"— an  expression  which  my  grandfather  never 
forgave.  He  was  as  constant  in  his  dislikes  as^in  his  attachments;  and  exceed- 
ingly partial  to  Webb,  whose  side  he  took  against  the  more  celebrated  generaL 
We  have  General  Webb's  portrait  now  at  Castlewood,  Va. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  355 

those  in  the  immediate  suite  of  the  General,  were  ready  to  come  to 
blows;  and  hence  arose  the  only  affair  in  which  Mr.  Esmond  ever 
engaged  as  principal,  and  that  was  from  a  revengeful  wish  to  wipe 
off  an  old  injury. 

My  Lord  Mohun,  who  had  a  troop  in  Lord  Macclesfield's  regi- 
ment of  the  Horse  Guards,  rode  this  campaign  with  the  Duke.  He 
had  sunk  by  this  time  to  the  very  worst  reputation;  he  had  had 
another  fatal  duel  in  Spain ;  he  had  married,  and  forsaken  his  wife ; 
he  was  a  gambler,  a  profligate,  and  debauchee.  He  joined  just 
before  Oudenarde ;  and,  as  Esmond  feared,  as  soon  as  Frank  Castle- 
wood  heard  of  his  arrival,  Frank  was  for  seeking  him  out,  and  kill- 
ing him.  Tlie  wound  my  Lord  got  at  Oudenarde  prevented  their 
meeting,  but  that  was  nearly  healed,  and  Mr.  Esmond  trembled 
iaily  lest  any  chance  should  bring  his  boy  and  this  known  assassin 
together.  They  met  at  the  mess-table  of  Handyside's  regiment  at 
Lille ;  the  officer  commanding  not  knowing  of  the  feud  between 
the  two  noblemen. 

Esmond  had  not  seen  the  hateful  handsome  face  of  Mohun  for 
nine  years,  since  they  had  met  on  that  fatal  night  in  Leicester 
Field.  It  was  degraded  with  crime  and  passion  now ;  it  wore  the 
anxious  look  of  a  man  who  has  three  deaths,  and  who  knows  how 
many  hidden  shames,  and  lusts,  and  crimes  on  his  conscience.  He 
bowed  with  a  sickly  low  bow,  and  skmk  away  when  our  host  pre- 
sented us  round  to  one  another.  Frank  Castlewood  had  not  known 
him  till  then,  so  changed  was  he.     He  knew  the  boy  well  enough. 

*Twas  curious  to  look  at  the  two — especially  the  young  man, 
wliose  face  flushed  up  when  he  heard  the  hated  name  of  the  other; 
a!id  who  said  in  his  bad  French  and  his  brave  boyish  voice,  "He 
had  long  been  anxious  to  meet  my  Lord  Mohun."  The  other  only 
bowed,  and  moved  away  from  him.  To  do  him  justice,  he  wished 
to  have  no  quarrel  with  the  lad. 

Esmond  put  himself  betv.'een  them  at  table.     "D it,"  says 

Frank,  'Svhy  do  you  put  yourself  in  the  place  of  a  man  who  is 
above  you  in  degree?  My  Lord  Mohun  sliould  walk  after  me.  I 
want  to  sit  by  my  Lord  Mohun." 


3o6  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESI^IOXD 

Esmond  whispered  to  Lord  Mohiin,  that  Frank  ivas  hnrt  in  the 
leg  at  Oudenarde;  and  besought  the  other  to  be  quiet.  Quiet 
enough  he  was  for  some  time;  disregarding  the  many  taunts  which 
young  Castlewood  flung  at  him,  until  after  several  healths,  when 
my  Lord  Mohun  got  to  be  rather  in  liquor. 

''AVill  you  go  away,  my  Lord?"  Mr.  Esm.ond  said  to  him, 
imploring  him  to  quit  the  table. 

"No,  by  G — ,"  says  my  Lord  Mohun.  "1*11  not  go  away  for 
any  man;"'  he  was  quite  flushed  with  wine  by  this  time. 

The  talk  got  round  to  the  affairs  of  yesterday.  Webb  had  offered 
to  challenge  the  Commander-in-Chief:  AVebb  had  been  ill-used: 
"Webb  was  the  bravest,  handsomest,  vainest  man  in  the  army. 
Lord  Mohun  did  not  know  that  Esmond  was  Webb's  aide-de-camp. 
He  began  to  tell  some  stories  against  the  General;  which,  from 
t'other  side  of  Esmond,  young  Castlewood  contradicted. 

"I  can't  bear  any  more  of  this,''  says  my  Lord  Mohun. 

"Nor  can  I,  my  Lord,"  says  Mr.  Esmond,  starting  up.  "The 
iStory  my  Lord  Mohun  has  told  respecting  General  Webb  is  false, 
gentlemen — false,  I  repeat,"  and  making  a  low  bow  to  Lord  Mohun. 
and  without  a  single  word  more,  Esmond  got  up  and  left  the 
dining-room.  These  affairs  were  common  enough  among  the  mili- 
tary of  those  days.  There  was  a  garden  behind  the  house,  and  all 
the  party  turned  instantly  into  it;  and  the  two  gentlemen's  coats 
were  off  and  their  points  engaged  within  two  minutes  after 
Esmond's  words  had  been  spoken.  If  Captain  Esmond  had  put 
Mohun  out  of  the  world,  as  he  might,  a  villain  would  have  been 
punished  and  spared  further  villainies — but  who  is  one  man  to 
punish  another?  I  declare  upon  my  honour  that  my  only  thought 
was  to  prevent  Lord  Mohun  from  mischief  with  Frank,  and  the  end 
of  this  meeting  was,  that  after  half-a-dozen  passes  my  Lord  went 
home  with  a  hurt  which  prevented  him  from  lifting  his  right  arm 
for  three  months. 

"O  Harry  I  why  didn't  j'ou  kill  the  villain?''  young  Castlewood 
asked.  "I  can't  walk  without  a  crutch:  but  I  could  have  met  him 
on  horseback  with  sword  and  pistol."     But  Harry  Esmond  said, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  357 

''  'Tvvas  best  to  have  no  man's  life  on  one's  conscience,  not  even 
that  villain's."  And  this  affak', which  did  not  occupy  three  minutes, 
being  over,  the  gentlemen  went  back  to  their  wine,  and  my  Lord 
Mohuu  to  his  quarters,  where  he  was  laid  up  with  a  fever  which 
had  spared  mischief  had  it  proved  fatal.  And  very  soon  after  this 
affaii-  Harry  Esmond  and  his  General  left  the  camp  for  London ; 
whitlier  a  certain  reputation  had  preceded  the  Captain,  for  my 
Lady  Castlewood  of  Chelsey  received  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  con- 
quering hero.  She  gave  a  great  dinner  to  Mr.  Webb,  where  the 
General's  chair  was  crowned  with  laurels;  and  her  Ladyship  called 
Esmond's  health  in  a  toast,  to  which  my  kind  General  was 
graciously  pleased  to  bear  the  strongest  testimony :  and  took  down 
a  mob  of  at  least  forty  coaches  to  cheer  our  General  as  he  came  out 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  the  day  when  he  received  the  thanks  of 
Parliament  for  his  action.  The  mob  huzza' d  and  applauded  him, 
as  well  as  the  fine  company :  it  was  splendid  to  see  him  waving  his 
hat,  and  bowing,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  his  Order  of  Gener- 
osity. He  introduced  Mr.  Esmond  to  Mr.  St.  John  and  the  Right 
Honourable  Robert  Harley,  Esquire,  as  he  came  out  of  the  House 
walking  between  them ;  and  was  pleased  to  make  many  flattering 
observations  regarding  Mr.  Esmond's  behaviour  during  the  three 
last  campaigns. 

Mr.  St.  John  (who  had  the  most  winning  presence  of  any  man  I 
ever  saw,  excepting  always  my  peerless  young  Frank  Castle- 
wood) said  he  had  heard  of  Mr.  Esmond  before  from  Captain 
Steele,  and  how  he  had  helped  Mr.  Addison  to  write  his  famous 
poem  of  the  "Campaign." 

'  'Twas  as  great  an  achievement  as  the  victory  of  Blenheim 
itself,"  Mr.  Harley  said,  who  was  famous  as  a  judge  and  patron  of 
letters,  and  so,  perhaps,  it  may  be — though  for  my  part  I  think 
there  are  twenty  beautiful  lines,  but  all  the  rest  is  commonplace, 
and  Mr.  Addison's  hymn  worth  a  thousand  such  poems. 

j^ll  the  town  was  indignant  at  my  Lord  Duke's  unjust  treat- 
ment of  General  Webb,  and  applauded  the  vote  of  thanks  which 
the  House  of  Commons  gave  to  the  General  for  his  victory  at 


35S  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Wyneii  lael.  "Tis  certain  that  the  capture  of  Lille  was  the  conse- 
quence of  that  lucky  achievement,  and  the  humiliation  of  the  old 
French  King,  who  was  said  to  suffer  more  at  the  loss  of  this  great 
city,  than  from  any  of  the  former  victories  our  troops  had  won 
over  him.  And,  I  think,  no  small  part  of  Mr.  Webb's  exultation  at 
his  victory  arose  from  the  idea  that  Marlborough  had  been  disap- 
pointed of  a  great  bribe  the  French  King  had  promised  him,  should 
the  siege  be  raised.  The  very  sum  of  money  offered  to  him  was 
mentioned  by  the  Duke's  enemies ;  and  honest  Mr.  Webb  chuckled 
at  the  notion,  not  only  of  beating  the  French,  but  of  beating  Marl- 
borough too,  and  intercepting  a  convoy  of  three  millions  of  French 
crowns,  that  were  on  their  way  to  the  Generalissimo's  insatiable 
pockets.  When  the  General's  lady  went  to  the  Queen's  drawing- 
room,  all  the  Tory  women  crowded  round  her  with  congratulations, 
and  made  her  a  train  greater  than  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough's 
own.  Feasts  were  given  to  the  General  by  all  the  chiefs  of  tlie 
Tory  party,  who  vaunted  him  as  the  Duke's  equal  in  military  skill; 
and  perhaps  used  the  worthy  soldier  as  their  instrument,  whilst  he 
thought  they  were  but  acknowledging  his  merits  as  a  commander. 
As  the  General's  aide-de-camp  and  favourite  officer,  Mr.  Esmond 
came  in  for  a  share  of  his  chief's  popularity,  and  Avas  presented  to 
her  Majesty,  and  advanced  to  the  rank  of  Lieutenant-Colonel,  at 
the  request  of  his  grateful  chief. 

We  may  be  sure  there  was  one  family  in  which  any  good  fortune 
that  happened  to  Esmond  caused  such  a  sincere  pride  and  pleasure, 
that  he,  for  his  part,  was  thankful  he  could  make  them  so  happy. 
With  these  fond  friends  Blenheim  and  Oudenarde  seemed  to  be 
mere  trifling  incidents  of  the  war ;  and  Wynendael  was  its  crown- 
ing victory.  Esmond's  mistress  never  tired  to  hear  accounts  of  the 
battle;  and  I  think  General  Webb's  lady  grew  jealous  of  her,  for 
the  (Teneral  was  for  ever  at  Kensington,  and  talking  on  that 
delightful  theme.  As  for  his  aide-de-camp,  though,  no  doubt, 
Esmond's  own  natural  vanit}^  was  pleased  at  the  little  share  of  rep- 
utation which  his  good  fortune  had  won  him,  5'et  it  was  chiefly 
precious  to  him  (he  may  say  so,  now  that  he  hath  long  since  out- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  359 

lived  it)  because  it  pleased  his  mistress,  and,  above  all,    because 
Beatrix  valued  it. 

As  for  the  old  Dowager  of  Chelsey,  never  was  an  old  woman  in 
all  Engla,nd  more  delighted  nor  more  gracious  than  she.  Esmond 
had  his  quarters  in  lier  Ladyship's  house,  where  the  domestics  vrere 
instructed  to  consider  him  as  their  master.  She  bade  him  give 
entertainments,  of  which  she  defrayed  the  charges,  and  svas 
charmed  when  his  guests  were  carried  away  tipsy  in  their  coaches. 
She  must  hiive  his  picture  taken;  and  accordingly  he  was  painted 
by  Mr.  Jervas,  in  his  red  coat,  and  smiling  upon  a  bombshell, 
which  was  bursting  at  the  corner  of  the  piece.  She  vowed  that 
unless  he  made  a  great  match,  she  should  never  die  easy,  and  was 
for  ever  bringing  young  ladies  to  Chelsey,  with  pretty  faces  and 
pretty  fortunes,  at  the  disposal  of  the  Colonel.  He  smiled  to  think 
how  times  were  altered  with  him,  and  of  the  early  days  in  his 
father's  lifetime,  when  a  trembling  page  he  stood  before  her,  with 
her  Ladyship's  basin  and  ewer,  or  crouched  in  her  coach-step.  The 
only  fault  she  found  with  him  was,  that  he  was  more  sober  than  an 
Esmond  ought  to  be ;  and  would  neither  be  carried  to  bed  by  his 
valet,  nor  lose  his  heart  to  any  beauty,  whether  of  St.  James's  or 
Covent  Garden. 

Wliat  is  the  meaning  of  fidelity  in  love,  and  wdience  the  birth  of 
it?  'Tis  a  state  of  mind  that  men  fail  into,  and  depending  on  the 
man  rather  than  the  woman.  We  love  being  in  love,  that's  the 
truth  on't.  If  we  had  not  met  Joan,  we  should  have  met  Kate,  and 
adored   her.     We  know  our  mistresses  are  no  better  than  many 

i  other  women,  nor  no  prettier,  nor  no  w4ser,  nor  no  wittier.  'Tis 
not  for  these  reasons  we  love  a  woman,  or  for  any  special  quality  or 
charm  I  know  of;  we  might  as  well  demand  that  a  lady  should  be 
the  tallest  woman  in  the  world,  like  the  Shropshire  giantess,^  as  that 

i  she  should  be  a  paragon  in  any  other  character,  before  we  began  to 
love  her.  Esmond's  mistress  had  a  thousand  faults  beside  her 
charms ;  he  knew  both  perfectly  well !    She  was  imperious,  she  was 


1  'Tis  not  thus  luoman  loves:  Col.  E.  hath  owned  to  this  folly  for  a  score  of 
\tDOJnen  besides.— K. 


3G0  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

light  minded,  she  was  flighty,  she  was  false,  she  had  no  reverence 
in  her  character ;  she  was  in  everything,  even  in  beauty,  the  con- 
trast of  her  mother,  who  was  the  most  devoted  and  the  least  selfish 
of  women.  Well,  from  the  very  first  moment  he  saw  her  on  the 
stairs  at  Walcote,  Esmond  knew  he  loved  Beatrix.  There  might  be 
better  w^omen — he  wanted  that  one.  He  cared  for  none  other. 
Was  it  because  she  was  gloriously  beautiful?  Beautiful  as  she  was, 
he  had  heard  people  say  a  score  of  times  in  their  company  that 
Beatrix's  mother  looked  as  young,  and  was  the  handsomer  of  the 
two.  Why  did  her  voice  thrill  in  his  ear  so?  She  could  not  sing  near 
so  well  as  Nicolini  or  Mrs.  Tofts;  nay,  she  sang  out  of  tune,  and  yet 
he  liked  to  hear  her  better  than  St.  Cecilia.  She  had  not  a  finer  com- 
plexion than  Mrs.  Steele  (Dick's  wife,  whom  he  had  now  got,  and 
who  ruled  poor  Dick  with  a  rod  of  pickle),  and  yet  to  see 
her  dazzled  Esmond ;  he  would  shut  his  eyes,  and  the  thought  of 
her  dazzled  him  all  the  same.  She  was  brilliant  and  lively  in  talk, 
but  not  so  incomparably  witty  as  her  mother,  who,  wiien  she  was 
cheerful,  said  the  finest  things;  but  yet  to  hear  her,  and  to  be  with 
her,  was  Esmond's  greatest  pleasure.  Days  passed  away  between 
him  and  these  ladies,  he  scarce  knew  how.  He  poured  his  heart 
out  to  them,  so  as  he  never  could  in  any  other  companjs  where  he 
hath  generally  passed  for  being  moody,  or  supercilious  and  silent. 
This  society^  was  more  delightful  than  that  of  the  greatest  wits  to 
him.  May  Heaven  pardon  him  the  lies  he  told  the  Dovv'ager  at 
Chelsey  in  order  to  get  a  pretext  for  going  away  to  Kensington : 
the  business  at  the  Ordnance  which  he  invented ;  the  interviews 
with  his  General,  the  courts  and  statesmen's  levees  which  he  didn't 
frequent,  and  described ;  who  wore  a  new  suit  on  Sunday  at  St. 
James's  or  at  the  Queen's  birthday;  how  many  coaches  filled  the 
street  at  Mr.  Harley's  levee;  how  many  bottles  he  had  had  the 
honour  to  drink  over-night  with  Mr.  St.  John  at  the  "Cocoa-Tree," 
or  at  the  "Garter"  with  Mr.  Walpole  and  Mr.  Steele. 

Mistress  Beatrix  Esmond  had  been  a  dozen  times  on  the  point  of 

1  And,  indeed,  so  was  his  to  them,  a  thousand  thousand  times  more  charm* 
ing,  for  where  was  his  equal  ?— R. 


THE  HISTORY    OF  HENRY   ESMOND  361 

making  great  raatcb.es,  so  the  Court  scandal  said ;  but  for  his  part 
Esmond  never  would  believe  the  stories  against  her;  and  came 
back,  after  three  years'  absence  from  her,  not  so  frantic  as  he  had 
been  perhaps,  but  still  liungering  after  her  and  no  other;  still  hope- 
ful, still  kneeling,  with  his  heart  in  his  hand  for  the  young  lady  to 
take.  We  were  now  got  to  1709.  She  was  near  twenty-two  years 
old,  and  three  years  at  Court,  and  without  a  husband. 

"  'Tis  not  for  want  of  being  asked,"  Lady  Castlewood  said,  look- 
ing into  E.smond's  heart,  as  she  could,  with  that  perceptiveness 
affection  gives.  "But  she  will  make  no  mean  match,  Harry;  she 
will  not  marry  as  I  would  have  her;  the  person  whom  I  should  like 
to  call  my  son,  and  Henry  Esmond  knows  who  that  is,  is  best 
served  by  my  not  pressing  his  claim.  Beatrix  is  so  wilful,  that 
what  I  would  urge  on  her,  she  would  be  sure  to  resist.  The  man 
who  would  marry  her  will  not  be  happy  with  her,  unless  he  be  a 
great  person,  and  can  put  her  in  a  great  position.  Beatrix  loves 
admiration  more  than  love;  and  longs,  bej^ond  all  things,  for  com- 
mand. Wiiy  should  a  mother  speak  so  of  her  child?  Y^ou  are  my 
son,  too,  Harr^^  You  should  know  the  truth  about  your  sister.  I 
thought  you  migb.t  cure  yourself  of  your  passion,"  my  Lady  added 
fondly.  "Other  people  can  cure  themselves  of  that  folly  you 
know.  But  I  see  you  are  still  as  infatuated  as  ever.  When  we 
read  your  name  in  the  Gazette,  I  pleaded  for  you,  my  jDoor  boy. 
Poor  boy,  indeed !  You  are  growing  a  grave  old  gentleman,  now, 
and  I  am  an  old  woman.  She  likes  your  fame  well  enough,  and 
she  likes  your  person.  She  says  you  have  wit,  and  fire,  and 
good-breeding,  and  are  more  natural  tlian  the  fine  gentlemen  of  tiie 
Court.  But  this  is  not  enough.  She  wants  a  commander-in-chief, 
and  not  a  colonel.  Were  a  duke  to  ask  her,  she  would  leave  an  earl 
whom  she  had  promised.  I  told  you  so  before.  I  know  not  how  my 
poor  girl  is  so  worldly." 

"AVell,"  says  Esmond,  "a  man  can  but  give  his  best  and  his  all. 
She  has  that  from  me.  What  little  reputation  I  have  won,  I  swear 
I  cared  for  it  because  I  thought  Beatrix  would  be  pleased  with  it. 
What  care  I  to  be  a  colonel  or  a  general?    Think  you  'twill  matter 


362  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

a  few  score  years  hence,  wliat  our  foolish  honours  to-day  are?  1 
would  have  had  a  little  fame,  that  she  might  wear  it  in  her  hat. 
If  I  had  anything  better,  I  would  endow  her  with  it.  If  she  wants 
my  life,  I  would  give  it  her.  If  she  marries  another,  I  will  say  God 
bless  him.  I  make  no  boast,  nor  no  complaint.  I  think  my  fidelity 
is  folly,  perhaps.  But  so  it  is.  I  cannot  help  myself.  I  love  her. 
You  are  a  thousand  times  better:  the  fondest,  the  faire.st,  the  dear- 
est of  women.  Sure,  my  dear  lady,  I  see  all  Beatrix's  faults  as  well 
as  you  do.  But  she  is  my  fate.  'Tis  endurable.  I  shall  not  die  for 
not  having  her.  I  think  I  should  be  no  happier  if  I  won  her.  Que 
voulez-vous?  as  my  Lady  of  Chelsey  would  say.     Je  I'aime." 

"I  wish  she  would  have  you,"  said  Harry's  fond  mistress,  giving 
a  hand  to  him.  He  kissed  the  fair  hand  ('twas  the  prettiest 
dimpled  little  hand  in  the  world,  and  my  Lady  Castle  wood,  though 
now  almost  forty  years  old,  did  not  look  to  be  within  ten  years  of 
her  age).    He  kissed  and  kept  her  fair  hand  as  they  talked  together. 

"Why,"  says  he,  "should  she  hear  nie?  She  knows  what  I  would 
say.  Far  or  near,  she  knows  I'm  her  slave.  I  liave  sold  myself  for 
nothing,  it  may  be.  Well,  'tis  the  price  I  choose  to  take.  I  am 
worth  nothing,  or  I  am  worth  all." 

"You  are  such  a  treasure,"  Esmond's  mistress  was  pleased  to 
say,  "that  the  woman  who  has  your  love,  shouldn't  change  it  away 
against  a  kingdom,  I  think.  I  am  a  country-bred  woman,  and 
cannot  say  but  the  ambitions  of  the  town  seem  mean  to  me.  I 
never  was  awe-stricken  by  my  Lady  Duchess's  rank  and  finery,  or 
affraid,"  slie  added,  with  a  sly  laugli,  "of  anj'thing  but  her  temper. 
I  liear  of  Court  ladies  who  pine  because  her  Majesty  looks  cold  on 
1?hem;  and  great  noblemen  wlio  would  give  a  iimb  tiiat  they  might 
wear  a  garter  on  the  other.  Tliis  vrorldliness,  v%'hich  I  can't  com- 
prehend, was  born  with  Beatrix,  who,  on  the  first  day  of  her  wait- 
ing, was  a  perfect  courtier.  We  are  like  sisters,  and  she  the  elder 
sister,  soniehov,^  She  tells  me  I  have  a  mean  spirit.  I  laugli,  and 
say  she  adores  a  coach-and-six.  I  cannot  reason  her  out  of  her 
ambition.  'Tis  natural  to  her,  as  to  me  to  love  quiet,  and  be 
iudiii'erent  about  rank  and  riches.     What  are  thev,  narr3'?  and  for 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  363 

how  long  do  they  last?  Our  home  is  not  here.''  She  smiled  as  she 
spoke,  and  looked  like  an  angel  that  v/as  only  on  earth  on  a  visit. 
"Our  home  is  where  the  just  are,  and  where  our  sins  and  sorrows 
enter  not.  My  father  used  to  rebuke  me,  and  say  that  I  was  too 
hopeful  about  heaven.  But  I  cannot  help  my  nature,  and  grow 
obstinate  as  I  grow  to  be  an  old  woman ;  and  as  I  love  my  children 
so,  sure  our  Father  loves  us  with  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times 
greater  love.  It  must  be  that  we  shall  meet  yonder,  and  be  happy. 
Yes,  you — and  my  children,  and  my  dear  lord.  Do  you  know, 
Harry,  since  his  death,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  as  if  his  love 
came  back  to  me,  and  that  we  are  parted  no  more.  Perhaps  he  is 
here  now,  Harry — I  think  he  is.  Forgiven  I  am  sure  he  is:  even 
Mr.  Atterbury  absolved  him,  and  he  died  forgiving.  Oh,  w^hat  a 
noble  heart  he  had!  How  generous  he  was!  I  was  but  fifteen  and 
a  child  when  he  married  me.  How  good  he  was  to  stoop  to  me ! 
He  was  always  good  to  the  poor  and  humble."  She  stopped,  then 
presently,  with  a  peculiar  expression,  as  if  her  ej^es  were  looking 
into  heaven,  and  saw  my  Lord  there,  she  smiled,  and  gave  a  little 
laugh.  "I  laugh  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  says;  "when  you  come,  it 
seems  as  if  you  never  were  away."  One  may  put  her  words  down, 
and  remember  them,  but  how  describe  her  sweet  tones,  sweeter 
than  music! 

My  young  lord  did  not  come  home  at  the  end  of  the  campaign, 
and  wrote  that  he  was  kept  at  Bruxelles  on  military  duty.  Indeed, 
I  believe  he  was  engaged  in  laying  siege  to  a  certain  lady,  who  was 
of  the  suite  of  Madame  de  Soissons,  the  Prince  of  Savoy's  mother, 
who  was  just  dead,  and  who,  like  the  Flemish  fortresses,  was  taken 
and  retaken  a  great  number  of  times  during  the  war,  and  occupied 
by  French,  English,  and  Imperialists.  Of  course,  Mr.  Esmond  did 
not  think  fit  to  enlighten  Lady  Castlewood  regarding  the  young 
scapegrace's  doings;  nor  had  he  said  a  v/ord  about  the  affair  with 
Lord  Mohun,  knowing  how  abhorrent  that  man's  name  was  to  his 
mistress.  Frank  did  not  vraste  much  time  or  money  on  pen  and 
ink ;  and,  when  Harry  came  home  with  his  General,  only  writ  two 
lines  to  bis  mother,  to  say  his  wound  in  the  leg  was  almost  healed, 


364  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

that  he  would  keep  his  coming  of  age  next  year — that  the  duty 
aforesaid  would  keep  him  at  Bruxelles,  and  that  Cousin  Harry 
would  tell  all  the  news. 

But  from  Bruxelles,  knowing  how  the  Lady  Castlewood  alwaj's 
liked  to  have  a  letter  about  the  famous  29th  of  December,  my  Lord 
writ  her  a  long  and  full  one,  and  in  this  he  must  have  described  the 
affair  with  Mohun ;  for  when  Mr.  Esmond  came  to  visit  his  mistress 
one  day,  early  in  the  new  year,  to  his  great  wonderment,  she  and 
her  daughter  both  came  up  and  saluted  him,  and  after  them  the 
Dowager  of  Chelsey,  too,  whose  chairman  had  just  brought  her 
Ladyship  from  her  village  to  Kensington  across  the  fields.  After 
tliis  honour,  I  say,  from  the  two  ladies  of  Castlewood,  the  Dowager 
came  forward  in  great  state,  with  her  grand  tall  head-dress 
of  King  James's  reign,  that  she  never  forsook,  and  said,  "Cousin 
Henry,  all  our  family  have  met;  and  we  thank  you,  cousin, 
for  your  noble  conduct  towards  the  head  of  our  house."  And 
pointing  to  her  blushing  cheek,  she  made  Mr.  Esmond  aware 
that  he  was  to  enjoy  the  rapture  of  an  embrace  there.  Hav- 
ing saluted  one  cheek,  she  turned  to  him  the  other.  "Cousin 
Harry,*'  said  both  the  other  ladies,  in  a  little  chorus,  "we  thank 
you  for  your  noble  conduct;"  and  then  Harry  became  aware 
that  the  story  of  the  Lille  affair  had  come  to  his  kinswomen's 
ears.  It  pleased  him  to  hear  them  all  saluting  him  as  one  of  their 
family. 

The  tables  of  the  dining-room  were  laid  for  a  great  entertain- 
ment ;  and  the  ladies  were  in  gala  dresses — my  Lady  of  Chelsey  in 
her  highest  tour,  my  Lady  Viscountess  out  of  black,  and  looking 
fair  and  happy  a  ravir;  and  the  Maid  of  Honour  attired  with  that 
splendour  which  naturally  distinguished  her,  and  wearing  on  her 
beautiful  breast  the  French  officer's  star  which  Frank  had  sent 
home  after  Rami  Hies. 

"You  see  'tis  a  gala  day  with  us,"  says  she,  glancing  down  to 
the  star  complacently,  "and  we  have  our  orders  on.  Does  not 
mamma  look  charming?  'Twas  I  dressed  her!"  Indeed,  Esuiond's 
dear  mistress,  blushing  as  he  looked  at  her,  with  her  beautiful  fair 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  365 

hair,  and  an  elegant  dress,  according  to  the  mode,  appeared  to  have 
the  shape  and  complexion  of  a  girl  of  twenty. 

On  the  table  was  a  fine  sword,  with  a  red  velvet  scabbard,  and  a 
beautiful  chased  silver  handle,  with  a  blue  riband  for  a  sword-knot. 
"Wliat  is  this?"  says  the  Captain,  going  up  to  look  at  this  pretty 
piece. 

Mrs.  Beatrix  advanced  towards  it.  "Kneel  down,"  says  she: 
"we  dub  you  our  knight  with  this" — and  she  waved  the  sword  over 
his  head.  "My  Lady  Dowager  hath  given  the  sword;  and  I  give 
the  riband,  and  mamma  hath  sewn  on  the  fringe." 

"Put  the  sword  on  him,  Beatrix,"  says  her  mother.  "You  are 
our  knight,  Harry — our  true  knight.  Take  a  mother's  thanks  and 
prayers  for  defending  her  son,  my  dear,  dear  friend."  She  could 
say  no  more,  and  even  the  Dowager  was  affected,  for  a  couple  of 
rebellious  tears  made  sad  marks  down  those  wrinkled  old  roses 
which  Esmond  had  just  been  allowed  to  salute. 

"We  had  a  letter  from  dearest  Frank,"  his  mother  said,  "three 
days  since,  whilst  you  were  on  your  visit  to  your  friend  Captain 
Steele,  at  Hampton.  He  told  us  all  that  you  had  done,  and  how 
nobly  you  had  put  yourself  between  him  and  that  —  that 
wretch." 

"And  I  adopt  you  from  this  day,"  says  the  Dowager;  "and  I 
wish  I  was  richer,  for  your  sake,  son  Esmond,"  she  added  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand;  and  as  Mr.  Esmond  dutifully  went  down  on  his 
knee  before  her  Ladyship,  she  cast  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling  (the 
gilt  chandelier,  and  the  twelve  wax-candles  in  it,  for  the  party 
was  numerous),  and  invoked  a  blessing  from  that  quarter  upon 
the  newly  adopted  son. 

"Dear  Frank,"  says  the  other  Viscountess,  "how  fond  he  is  of 
his  military  i^rofession !  He  is  studying  fortification  very  hard.  I 
wish  he  were  here.  We  shall  keep  his  coming  of  age  at  Castle- 
wood  next  year." 

"If  the  campaign  permit  us,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"I  am  never  afraid  when  he  is  with  you,"  cries  the  boy's 
mother.     "I  am  sure  my  Henry  will  always  defend  him." 


3G0  THE  HISTORY  OF  RENP.Y  ESMOND 

"But,  there  will  be  a  peace  before  next  year;  we  know  it  for 
certain,"  cries  the  Maid  of  Honour.  "Lord  Marlborough  will  be 
dismissed,  and  that  horrible  Duchess  turned  out  of  all  her  places. 
Her  Majesty  won't  speak  to  her  now.  Did  you  see  her  at  Bushy, 
Harry?  She  is  furious,  and  she  ranges  about  the  Park  like  a  lioness, 
and  tears  people's  eyes  out." 

"And  the  Princess  Anne  will  send  for  somebody,"  says  my  Lady 
of  Chelsey,  taking  out  her  medal  and  kissing  it. 

"Did  you  see  the  King  at  Oudenarde,  Harry?"  his  mistress 
asked.  She  was  a  staunc-h  Jacobite,  and  would  no  more  have 
thought  of  denying  her  King  than  her  God. 

"I  saw  the  young  Hanoverian  only,"  Harry  said.  "The  Cheva- 
lier de  St.  George " 

"The  King,  sir,  the  King!"  said  the  ladies  and  Miss  Beatrix;  and 
she  clapped  her  pretty  hands,  and  cried,  "Vive  le  Roy!" 

By  this  time  there  came  a  thundering  knock,  that  drove  in  the 
doors  of  the  house  almost.  It  was  three  o'clock,  and  the  company 
were  arriving;  and  presently  the  servant  announced  Captain  Steele 
and  his  lady. 

Captain  and  Mrs.  Steele,  who  were  the  first  to  arrive,  had  driven 
to  Kensington  from  their  country  house,  the  Hovel  at  Hampton 
Wick.  "Not  from  our  mansion  in  Bloomsbury  Square,"  as  Mrs. 
Steele  took  care  to  inform  the  ladies.  Indeed  Harry  had  ridden 
away  from  Hampton  that  very  morning,  leaving  the  couple  by  the 
ears ;  for  from  the  chamber  where  he  lay,  in  a  bed  that  was  none  of 
the  cleanest,  and  kept  awake  by  the  company  which  he  had  in  his 
ovv-n  bed,  and  the  quarrel  which  was  going  on  in  the  next  room,  he 
could  hear  both  night  and  morning  the  curtain  lecture  which  ]Mrs. 
Steele  was  in  the  habit  of  administering  to  poor  Dick. 

At  night  it  did  not  matter  so  much  for  the  culprit ;  Dick  was 
:?uddled,  and  when  in  that  way  no  scolding  could  interrupt  his 
benevolence.  Mr.  Esmond  could  hear  him  coaxing  and  speaking  in 
that  maudlin  manner,  which  punch  and  claret  produce,  to  his 
beloved  Prue,  and  beseeching  her  to  remember  that  there  was  a 
distiwisht  officer  itlie  rex  roob,  who  would  overhear  her.     She  went 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  367 

on,  nevertheless,  calling  him  a  drunken  wretch,  and  was  only  inter- 
rupted in  her  harangues  by  the  Captain's  snoring. 

In  the  morning,  the  unhappy  victim  awoke  to  a  headache  and 
consciousness,  and  the  dialogue  of  the  night  was  resumed.  "Why 
do  you  bring  captains  home  to  dinner  when  there's  not  a  guinea  in 
the  house?  How  am  I  to  give  dinners  when  you  leave  me  without 
a  shilling?  How  am  I  to  go  trapesing  to  Kensington  in  my  yellow 
satin  sack  before  all  the  fine  company?  I've  nothing  fit  to  put  on; 
I  never  have:"  and  so  the  dispute  went  on — Mr.  Esmond  interrupt- 
ing the  talk  when  it  seemed  to  be  growing  too  intimate  by  blowing 
his  nose  as  loudly  as  ever  he  could,  at  the  sound  of  which  trumpet 
there  came  a  lull.  But  Dick  was  charming,  though  his  wife  was 
odious,  and  'twas  to  give  Mr.  Steele  pleasure  that  the  ladies  of 
Castle  wood,  who  were  ladies  of  no  small  fashion,  invited  Mrs. 
Steele. 

Besides  the  Captain  and  his  lady  there  was  a  great  and  notable 
assemblage  of  company :  my  Lady  of  Chelsey  having  sent  her  lac- 
queys and  liveries  to  aid  the  modest  attendance  at  Kensington. 
There  was  Lieutenant-General  Webb,  Harry's  kind  patron,  of  whom 
the  Dowager  took  possession,  and  who  resplended  in  velvet  and  gold 
lace;  there  was  Harry's  new  acquaintance,  the  Right  Honourable 
Henry  St.  John,  Esquire,  the  General's  kinsman,  who  was  charmed 
with  the  Lady  Castlewood,  even  more  than  with  her  daughter; 
there  was  one  of  the  greatest  noblemen  in  the  kingdom,  the  Scots 
Duke  of  Hamilton,  just  created  Duke  of  Brandon  in  England;  and 
two  other  noble  Lords  of  the  Tory  party,  my  Lord  Ashburnham, 
and  another  I  have  forgot;  and  for  ladies,  her  Grace  the  Duchess  of 
Ormonde  and  her  daughters,  the  Lady  Mary  and  the  Lady  Betty,  tlie 
former  one  of  Mistress  Beatrix's  colleagues  in  waiting  on  the 
Queen. 

"What  a  party  of  Tories!"  whispered  Captain  Steele  to  Esmond, 
as  we  were  assembled  in  the  parlour  before  dinner.  Indeed,  all  the 
company  present,  save  Steele,  were  of  that  faction. 

Mr.  St.  John  made  his  special  compliments  to  Mr.s.  Steele,  and 
so  charmed  her  tliat  she  declared  she  would  have  Steele  a  Tory  too. 


368  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

"Or  will  3'ou  liave  me  a  Whig?"'  says  Mr.  St.  John.  "I  think, 
madam,  you  could  conv^ert  a  man  to  anything." 

"If  Mr.  St.  John  ever  comes  to  Bloomsbury  Square  I  will  teach 
him  what  I  know,"  says  Mrs.  Steele,  dropping  her  handsome  eyes. 
"Do  3^ou  know  Bloomsbury  Squared ' 

'Do  I  know  the  Mall?  Do  I  know  the  Opera?  Do  I  know  the 
reigning  toast?  Why,  Bloomsbury  is  the  very  height  of  the  mode," 
says  Mr.  St.  John.  "  'Tis  i^us  in  urbe.  You  haA^e  gardens  all  the 
way  to  Hampstead,  and  palaces  round  about  you — Southampton 
House  and  Montague  House." 

"Where  you  wretches  go  and  fight  duels,"  cries  Mrs.  Steele. 

"Of  w^hich  the  ladies  are  the  cause!"  says  her  entertainer. 
"Madam,  is  Dick  a  good  swordsman?  How  charming  the  Tatler  is! 
We  all  recognised  your  portrait  in  the  49th  number,  and  I  have 
been  dying  to  know  you  ever  since  I  read  it.  'Aspasia  must  be 
allowed  to  be  the  first  of  the  beauteous  order  of  love.'  Doth  not 
tlie  passage  run  so?  'In  this  accomplished  lady  love  is  the  constant 
effect,  though  it  is  never  the  design ;  yet  though  her  mien  carries 
much  more  invitation  than  command,  to  behold  her  is  an  imme- 
diate check  to  loose  behaviour,  and  to  love  her  is  a  liberal  educa- 
tion.' " 

'Oh,  indeed!"  says  Mrs.  Steele,  who  did  not  seem  to  understand 
a  word  of  what  the  gentleman  was  saying. 

"Who  could  fail  to  be  accomplished  under  such  a  mistress?" 
says  Mr,  St.  John,  still  gallant  and  bowing. 

'Mistress!  upon  my  word,  sir!"  cries  the  lady.  "If  you  mean 
nie,  sir,  I  would  have  you  know"  that  I  am  the  Captain's  wufe. " 

'Sure  we  all  know  it,"  answers  Mr.  St.  John,  keeping  his  coun- 
tenance very  gravely;  and  Steele  broke  in  saying,  " 'Twas  not 
about  Mrs.  Steele  I  writ  that  paper — though  I  am  sure  she  is  worthy 
of  any  compliment  I  can  pay  her — but  bf  the  Lady  Elizabeth  Hast- 
ings." 

"I  hear  Mr.  Addison  is  equally  famous  as  a  wit  and  a  poet,"-^ 
says  Mr,  St.  John,     "Is  it  true  that  his  hand  is  to  be  found  in  your 
Tatler,  Mr  Steele?" 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  369 

'Wlietber  'tis  tlie  sublime  or  the  humorous,  no  man  can  cpme 
near  him,"  cries  Steele. 

"A  fig,  Dick,  for  your  Mr,  Addison!"  cries  out  his  lady  "a 
gentleman  who  gives  himself  such  airs  and  holds  his  head  so  high 
now.  I  hope  your  Ladyship  thinks  as  I  do:  I  can't  bear  those  verj^ 
fair  men  with  white  eyelashes — a  black  man  for  me."  (All  the 
black  men  at  taljle  applauded,  and  made  Mrs.  Steele  a  bow  for  this 
compliment.)  "As  for  this  Mr,  Addison,"  she  went  on,  "he  comes 
to  dine  w4th  the  Captain  sometimes,  never  says  a  word  to  me,  and 
then  they  walk  upstairs,  both  tipsy,  to  a  dish  of  tea,  I  remember 
your  Mr,  Addison  when  he  had  but  one  coat  to  his  back,  and  that 
with  a  patch  at  the  elbow," 

"Indeed— a  patch  at  the  elbow  1  Y^'ou  interest  me,"  says  Mr.  St. 
John.  "  'Tis  charming  to  hear  of  one  man  of  letters  from  the 
charming  wife  of  another," 

"La,  I  could  tell  you  ever  so  much  about  'em,"  continues  the 
voluble  lady,  "What  do  you  think  the  Captain  has  got  now? — a 
little  hunchback  fellow — a  little  hop-o'-my-thumb  creature  that  he 
calls  a  poet — a  little  Popish  brat!" 

"Hush!  there  are  two  in  the  room,"  whispers  her  compan- 
ion, 

"Well,  I  call  him  Popish  because  his  name  is  Pope,"  says  the 
lady  "  'Tis  only  my  joking  way.  And  this  little  dwarf  of  a  fellow 
has  wrote  a  pastoral  poem — all  about  shepherds  and  shepherdesses, 
you  know." 

"A  shepherd  should  have  a  little  crook,"  says  my  mistress,  laugh- 
ing from  her  end  of  the  table:  on  which  Mrs.  Steele  said,  "She  did 
not  know,  but  the  Captain  brought  home  this  queer  little  creature 
when  she  was  in  bed  with  her  first  boy,  and  it  was  a  mercy  he  had 
come  no  sooner;  and  Dick  raved  about  his  genus,  and  was  always 
raving  about  some  nonsense  or  other." 

"Which  of  the  Tatlers  do  you  prefer,  Mrs.  Steele?"  asked  Mr.  St. 
John. 

"I  never  read  but  one,  and  think  it  all  a  pack  of  rubbish,  sir," 
says  the  lady.     "Such  stuff  about  Bickerstaffe,  and  Distaff,  and 


370  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Quarterstaff,  as  it  all  is!  There's  the  Captain  going  on  still  with 
the  burgundy— I  know  he'll  be  tipsy  before  he  stops — Captain 
Steele!'" 

"I  drink  to  your  eyes,  my  dear,"  says  the  Captain,  who  seemed 
to  think  his  wife  charming,  and  to  receive  as  genuine  all  the  satiric 
compliments  which  Mr.  St.  John  paid  her. 

All  this  while  the  Maid  of  Honour  had  been  trying  to  get  Mr. 
Esmond  to  talk,  and  no  doubt  voted  him  a  dull  fellow.  For,  by  some 
mistake,  just  as  he  was  going  to  pop  into  the  vacant  place,  he  was 
placed  far  away  from  Beatrix's  chair,  who  sat  between  his  Grace 
and  my  Lord  Ashburnham,  and  shrugged  her  lovely  white  shoul- 
ders, and  casta  look  as  if  to  say,  "Pity  me,"  to  her  cousin.  My 
Lord  Duke  and  his  j^oung  neighbour  were  presently  in  a  very  ani- 
mated and  close  conversation.  Mrs.  Beatrix  could  no  more  help 
using  her  eyes  than  the  sun  can  help  shining,  and  setting  those  it 
shines  on  a-burning.  By  the  time  the  first  course  was  done  the 
dinner  seemed  long  to  Esmond;  by  the  time  the  soup  came  he  fan- 
cied they  must  have  been  hours  at  table ;  and  as  for  the  sweets  and 
jellies  he  thought  they  never  would  be  done. 

At  length  the  ladies  rose,  Beatrix  throwing  a  Parthian  glance  at 
her  duke  as  she  retreated ;  a  fresh  bottle  and  glasses  were  fetched, 
and  toasts  were  called.  Mr.  St.  John  asked  his  Grace  the  Duke  of 
Hamilton  and  the  company  to  drink  to  the  liealth  of  his  Grace  tlie 
Duke  of  Brandon.  Another  lord  gave  General  Webb's  health,  "and 
may  he  get  the  command  the  bravest  officer  in  tlie  world  deserves." 
Mr.  Webb  thanked  the  company,  complimented  his  aide-de-camp, 
and  fought  his  famous  battle  over  again. 

"II  est  fatiguant,"  whispers  Mr.  St.  John,  "avec  sa  trompette  do 
Wynendael." 

Captain  Steele,  who  was  not  of  our  side,  loyally  gave  the  health 
of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  the  greatest  general  of  the  age. 

"I  drink  to  the  greatest  general  with  all  my  heart,"  says  Mr. 
Webb;  "there  can  be  no  gainsaying  that  character  of  him.  My 
glass  goes  to  the  General,  and  not  to  the  Duke,  Mr.  Steele."  And 
the  stout  old  gentleman  emptied  his  bumper;  to  which  Dick  replied 


THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  371 

by  filling  and  emptying  a  pair  of  brimmers,  one  for  the  General 
and  one  for  the  Duke. 

And  now  his  Grace  of  Hamilton,  rising  up  with  flashing  eyes  (we 
had  all  been  drinking  pretty  freely),  proposed  a  toast  to  the  lovely, 
to  the  incomj)arable  Mrs.  Beatrix  Esmond ;  we  all  drank  it  with 
cheers,  and  mj^  Lord  Ashburnhani  especially,  with  a  shout  of 
enthusiasm. 

"What  a  pity  there  is  a  Duchess  of  Hamilton!"  whispers  St. 
John,  who  drank  more  wine  and  yet  was  more  steady  than  most  of 
the  others,  and  we  entered  the  drawing-room  where  the  ladies  were 
at  their  tea.  As  for  poor  Dick,  we  were  obliged  to  leave  him  alone 
at  the  dining-table,  where  he  was  hiccupping  out  the  lines  from  the 
''Campaign,"  in  which  the  greatest  poet  had  celebrated  the  great- 
est general  in  the  world ;  and  Harry  Esmond  found  him,  half-an- 
hour  afterwards,  in  a  more  advanced  stage  of  liquor,  and  weeping 
about  the  treachery  of  Tom  Boxer. 

The  drawing-room  was  all  dark  to  poor  Harry,  in  spite  of  the 
grand  illumination.  Beatrix  scarce  spoke  to  him.  When  my  Lord 
Duke  went  away,  she  practised  upon  the  next  in  ranZi,  and  plied 
my  young  Lord  Ashburnhani  with  all  the  fire  of  her  eyes  and  the 
fascinations  of  her  wit.  Most  of  the  party  were  set  to  cards,  and 
Mr.  St.  John,  after  yawning  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Steele,  whom  he 
did  not  care  to  pursue  any  more,  and  talking  in  his  most  brilliant 
ainimated  way  to  Lady  Castlewood,  whom  he  pronounced  to  be 
beautiful,  of  a  far  higher  order  of  beauty  than  her  daughter,  jjres- 
ently  took  his  leave,  and  went  his  way.  The  rest  of  the  company 
speedily  followed,  my  Lord  Ashburnhani  the  last,  throwing  fiery 
glances  at  the  smiling  young  temptress,  who  had  bewitched  more 
hearts  than  his  in  her  thrall. 

No  doubt,  as  a  kinsman  of  the  house,  Mr.  Esmond  thought  fit  to 
be  the  last  of  all  in  it ;  he  remained  after  the  coaches  had  rolled 
away — after  his  dowager  aunt's  chair  and  flambeaux  had  marched 
off  in  the  darkness  towards  Chelsey,  and  the  town's  people  had 
gone  to  bed,  who  had  been  drawn  into  the  square  to  gape  at  the 
unusual  assemblage  of  chairs  and  cliariots,  lacqueys,  and  torchmen. 


372  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

The  poor  mean  wretch  lingered  yet  for  a  few  minutes,  to  see 
whether  the  girl  would  vouchsafe  him  a  smile,  or  a  parting  word  of 
consolation.  But  her  enthusiasm  of  the  morning  was  quite  died 
out,  or  she  chose  to  be  in  a  different  mood.  She  fell  to  joking  about 
the  dowdy  appearance  of  Lady  Betty,  and  mimicked  the  vulgarity 
of  Mrs.  Steele ;  and  then  she  put  up  her  little  hand  to  her  mouth 
and  yawned,  lighted  a  taper,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
dropping  Mr.  Esmond  a  saucy  curtsey,  sailed  off  to  bed. 

"The  day  began  so  well,  Henry,  that  I  had  hoped  it  might  liave 
ended  better,"  was  all  the  consolation  that  poor  Esmond's  fond  mis- 
tress could  give  him ;  and  as  he  trudged  home  through  the  dark 
alone,  he  thought  with  bitter  rage  in  his  heart,  and  a  feeling  of 
almost  revolt  against  the  sacrifice  he  had  made: — "She  would  have 
me,"  thought  he,  "had  I  but  a  name  to  give  her.  But  for  my 
promise  to  her  father,  I  might  have  my  rank  and  my  mistress  too." 

I  suppose  a  man's  vanity  is  stronger  than  any  other  passion  in 
him;  for  I  blush,  even  now,  as  I  recall  the  humiliation  of  those 
distant  days,  the  memory  of  which  still  smarts,  though  the  fever  of 
balked  desire  has  passed  away  more  than  a  score  of  years  ago. 
V7hen  the  writer's  descendants  come  to  read  this  memoir,  I  wonder 
will  they  have  lived  to  experience  a  similar  defeat  and  shame? 
Will  they  ever  have  knelt  to  a  woman,  who  has  listened  to  them, 
and  played  wuth  them,  and  laughed  with  them — who  beckoning 
them  with  lures  and  caresses,  and  with  Yes  smiling  from  her  eyes, 
has  tricked  them  on  to  their  knees,  and  turned  her  back  and  left 
them?  All  this  shame  Mr.  Esmond  had  to  undergo ;  and  he  sub- 
mitted, and  revolted,  and  presently  came  crouching  back  for  more. 

After  this  feste,  my  young  Lord  Ashburnham's  coach  was  for 
ever  rolling  in  and  out  of  Kensington  Square ;  his  lady-mother  came 
to  visit  Esmond's  mistress,  and  at  every  assembly  in  the  town, 
wherever  the  Maid  of  Honour  made  her  appearance,  you  might  be 
pretty  sure  to  see  the  young  gentleman  in  a  new  suit  every  week, 
and  decked  out  in  all  the  finery  that  his  tailor  or  embroiderer  could 
furnish  for  him.  My  Lord  was  for  ever  paying  Mr.  Esmond  com- 
pliments; bidding  him  to  dinner,  offering  him  horses  to  ride,  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  373 

giving  him  a  thousand  uncouth  marks  of  respect  and  good- will. 
At  last,  one  night  at  the  coffee-house,  whither  my  Lord  came  con- 
siderably flushed  and  excited  with  drink,  he  rushes  up  to  Mr. 
Esmond,  and  cries  out,  "Give  me  joy,  my  dearest  Colonel;  I  am  the 
happiest  of  men." 

"The  happiest  of  men  needs  no  dearest  colonel  to  give  him  joy," 
says  Mr.  Esmond.     "What  is  the  cause  of  this  supreme  felicity?" 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  says  he.  "Don't  you  know?  I  thought 
the  family  told  you  everything:  the  adorable  Beatrix  hath  promised 
to  be  mine." 

"What!"  cries  out  Mr.  Esmond,  m-1io  had  spent  happy  hours 
with  Beatrix  that  very  morning — had  writ  verses  for  her,  that  she 
had  sung  at  the  harpsichord. 

"Yes,"  says  he;  "I  waited  on  her  to-day.  I  saw  you  walking 
towards  Knightsbridge  as  I  passed  in  my  coach ;  and  she  looked  so 
lovely,  and  spoke  so  kind,  that  I  couldn't  help  going  down  on  my 
knees,  and — and — sure  I  am  the  happiest  of  men  in  all  the  world ; 
and  I'm  very  young;  but  she  says  I  shall  get  older;  and  you  know 
I  shall  be  of  age  in  four  months ;  and  there's  very  little  difference 
between  us;  and  I'm  so  happy,  I  should  like  to  treat  the  company 
to  something.  Let  us  have  a  bottle — a  dozen  bottles — and  drink 
the  health  of  the  finest  woman  in  England," 

Esmond  left  the  young  lord  tossing  off  bumper  after  bumper, 
and  strolled  away  to  Kensington  to  ask  whether  the  news  was  true. 
'Twas  only  too  sure:  his  mistress's  sad,  compassionate  face  told  him 
the  story;  and  then  slie  related  what  particulars  of  it  she  knew,  and 
how  my  young  lord  had  made  his  offer,  half-an-hour  after  Esmond 
went  away  that  morning,  and  in  the  very  room  where  the  song  lay 
yet  on  the  harpsichord,  which  Esmond  had  writ,  and  they  had 
sung  together. 


( 


BOOK   III 

CONTAINING   THE    END    OF  MR.  ESMOND'S    ADVENTURES 
IN  ENGLAND 

CHAPTER  I 

I   COME  TO   AN  END   OF   MY   BATTLES   AND  BRUISES 

That  feverish  desire  to  gain  a  little  reputation  which  Esmond 
had  had,  left  him  now  perhaps  that  he  had  attained  some  portion 
of  his  wish,  and  the  great  motive  of  his  ambition  was  over.  His 
desire  for  military  honour  was  that  it  might  raise  him  in  Beatrix's 
eyes.  'Twas,  next  to  nobility  and  wealth,  the  only  kind  of  rank 
she  valued.  It  was  the  stake  quickest  w^on  or  lost  too ;  for  law  is  a 
very  long  game  that  requires  a  life  to  practise ;  and  to  be  distin- 
guished in  letters  or  the  Church  would  not  have  forwarded  the  poor 
gentleman's  plans  in  the  least.  So  he  had  no  suit  to  play  but  the 
red  one,  and  he  played  it ;  and  this,  in  truth,  was  the  reason  of  his 
speedy  promotion ;  for  he  exposed  himself  more  than  most  gentle- 
men do,  and  risked  more  to  win  more.  Is  he  the  only  man  that 
hath  set  his  life  against  a  stake  which  may  be  not  worth  the  win- 
ning? Another  risks  his  life  (and  his  honour,  too,  sometimes) 
against  a  bundle  of  bank-notes,  or  a  yard  of  blue  riband,  or  a  seat 
in  Parliament ;  and  some  for  the  mere  pleasure  and  excitement  of 
the  sport;  as  a  field  of  a  hundred  huntsmen  will  do,  each  out-bawl- 
ing and  out-galloping  the  other  at  the  tail  of  a  dirty  fox,  that  is  to 
be  the  prize  of  the  foremost  hapi)y  conqueror. 

When  he  heard  this  news  of  Beatrix's  engagement  in  marriage. 
Colonel  Esmond  knocked  under  to  his  fate,  and  resolved  to  sur- 
render his  sword,  that  could  win  him  nothing  now  he  cared  for; 
and  in  this  dismal  frame  of  mind  he  determined  to  retire  from  the 
regiment,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  captain  next  in  rank  to  him, 
who  happened    to  be  a   young  gentleman  of   good  fortune,   who 

874 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  375 

eagerly  paid  Mr.  Esmond  a  thousand  guineas  for  his  majority  in 
Webb's  regiment,  and  was  knocked  on  the  head  the  next  campaign. 
Perhaps  Esmond  would  not  have  been  sorry  to  share  his  fate.  He 
was  more  the  Knight  of  the  Woeful  Countenance  than  ever  he  had 
been.  His  moodiness  must  have  made  him  perfectly  odious  to  his 
friends  under  the  tents,  who  like  a  jolly  fellow,  and  laugh  at  a 
melancholy  warrior  always  sighing  after  Dulcinea  at  home. 

Both  the  ladies  of  Castlewood  approved  of  ]Mr.  Esmond  quitting 
the  army,  and  his  kind  General  coincided  in  his  wish  of  retirement 
and  helped  in  the  transfer  of  his  commission,  which  brought  a 
pretty  sum  into  his  pocket.  But  when  the  Commander-in-Chief 
came  home,  and  was  forced,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  appoint  Lieu- 
tenant-General  Webb  to  the  command  of  a  division  of  the  army  in 
Flanders,  the  Lieutenant-General  prayed  Colonel  Esmond  so 
urgently  to  be  his  aide-de-camp  and  military  secretary,  that 
Esmond  could  not  resist  his  kind  patron's  entreaties,  and  again 
took  the  field,  not  attached  to  any  regiment,  but  under  Webb's 
orders.  What  must  have  been  the  continued  agonies  of  fears '  and 
apprehensions  which  racked  the  gentle  breasts  of  wives  and 
matrons  in  those  dreadful  days,  when  every  Gazette  brought 
accounts  of  deaths  and  battles,  and  when,  the  present  anxiety  over, 
and  the  beloved  person  escaped,  the  doubt  still  remained  that  a 
battle  might  be  fought,  possibly,  of  which  the  next  Flanders  letter 
would  bring  the  account ;  so  they,  the  poor  tender  creatures,  had  to 
go  on  sickening  and  trembling  through  the  whole  campaign. 
Whatever  these  terrors  were  on  the  part  of  Esmond's  mistress  (and 
that  tenderest  of  women  must  have  felt  them  most  keenly  for  both 
her  sons,  as  she  called  them),  she  never  allowed  them  outwardly  to 
appear,  but  hid  her  apprehension  as  she  did  her  charities  and  devo- 
tion. 'Twas  only  by  chance  that  Esmond,  w^andering  in  Kensing- 
ton, found  his  mistress  coming  out  of  a  mean  cottage  there,  and 
heard  that  she  had  a  score  of  poor  retainers,  whom  she  visited  and 
comforted  in  their  sickness  and  poverty,  and  who  blessed  her  daily. 

1  What  indeed?    Psm.  xci.  2,  3  7.— K.  E. 


376  THE  HISTORY   OF   HENRY   ESMOND 

She  attended  the  early  church  daily  (though  of  a  Sunday,  espe 
cially,  she  encouraged  and  advanced  all  sorts  of  cheerfulness  and 
innocent  gaiety  in  her  little  household):  and  by  notes  entered  into 
a  table-book  of  hers  at  this  time,  and  devotional  compositions  writ 
with  a  sweet  artless  fervour,  such  as  the  best  divines  could  not  sur- 
pass, showed  how  fond  her  heart  was,  hovv-  humble  and  pious  her 
spirit,  what  pangs  of  apprehension  she  endured  silently,  and  with 
what  a  faithful  reliance  she  committed  the  care  of  those  she  loved 
to  the  awful  Dispenser  of  death  and  life. 

As  for  her  Ladyship  at  Chelsey,  Esmond's  newly  adopted 
mother,  she  was  now  of  an  age  when  the  danger  of  any  second 
party  dotli  not  disturb  the  rest  much.  She  cared  for  trumps  more 
than  for  most  things  in  life.  She  was  firm  enough  in  lier  own  faith, 
but  no  longer  very  bitter  against  ours.  She  had  a  very  good- 
natured,  easy  French  director,  Monsieur  Gauthier  by  name,  who  was 
a  gentleman  of  the  world,  and  would  take  a  hand  of  cards  with 
Dean  Atterbury,  my  Lady's  neighbour  at  Chelsey,  and  was  well 
with  all  the  High  Church  party.  No  doubt  Monsieur  Gauthier 
knew  what  Esmond's  peculiar  position  was,  for  he  corresponded 
with  Holt,  and  always  treated  Colonel  Esmond  with  particular 
respect  and  kindness;  but  for  good  reasons  the  Colonel  and  the 
Abbe  never  spoke  on  this  matter  together,  and  so  they  remained 
perfect  good  friends. 

All  the  frequenters  of  my  Lady  of  Chelsey 's  house  were  of  the 
Tory  and  High  Church  party.  Madam  Beatrix  was  as  frantic 
about  the  King  as  her  elderly  kinswoman :  she  wore  his  picture  on 
her  heart;  she  had  a  piece  of  his  hair;  she  vowed  he  was  the  most 
injured,  and  gallant,  and  accomplished,  and  unfortunate,  and  beau- 
tiful of  princes.  Steele,  who  quarrelled  with  very  many  of  his  Tory 
friends,  but  never  with  Esmond,  used  to  tell  the  Colonel  that  his 
kinswoman's  house  was  a  rendezvous  of  Tory  intrigues;  that 
Gauthier  was  a  spy ;  that  Atterbury  was  a  spy ;  that  letters  were 
constantly  going  from  that  house  to  the  Queen  at  St.  Germains; 
on  which  Esmond,  laughing,  would  reply,  that  they  used  to  say  in 
the  army  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  was  a  spy  too,  and  as  much  in 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  377 

correspondence  with  that  family  as  any  Jesuit.  And  without 
entering  very  eagerly  into  the  controversy,  Esmond  had  frankly 
taken  the  side  of  his  family.  It  seemed  to  him  that  King  James 
the  Third  was  undoubtedly  King  of  England  by  right :  and  at  his 
sister's  death  it  would  be  better  to  have  him  than  a  foreigner  over 
us.  No  man  admired  King  William  more;  a  hero  and  a  conqueror, 
the  bravest,  justest,  wisest  of  men — but  'twas  by  the  sword  he 
conquered  the  country,  and  held  and  governed  it  by  the  very  same 
right  that  the  great  Cromwell  held  it,  who  was  truly  and  greatly  a 
sovereign.  But  that  a  foreign  despotic  prince,  out  of  Germany, 
who  happened  to  be  descended  from  King  James  the  First,  should 
take  possession  of  this  empire,  seemed  to  Mr.  Esmond  a  monstrous 
injustice — at  least,  every  Englishman  had  a  right  to  protest,  and 
the  English  prince,  the  heir-at-law,  the  first  of  all.  What  man  of 
spirit  with  such  a  cause  would  not  back  it?  What  man  of  honour 
with  such  a  crown  to  win  w^ould  not  fight  for  it?  But  that  race 
was  destined.  That  Prince  had  himself  against  him,  an  enemy  he 
could  not  overcome.  He  never  dared  to  draw  his  sword,  though  he 
had  it.  He  let  his  chances  slip  by  as  he  lay  in  the  lap  of  opera- 
girls,  or  snivelled  at  the  knees  of  priests,  asking  pardon ;  and  the 
blood  of  heroes,  and  the  devotedness  of  honest  hearts,  and  endur- 
ance, courage,  fidelity,  were  all  spent  for  him  in  vain. 

But  let  us  return  to  my  Lady  of  Chelsey,  who,  when  her  son 
Esmond  announced  to  her  Ladyship  that  he  proposed  to  make  the 
ensuing  campaign,  took  leave  of  him  with  perfect  alacrity,  and 
was  down  to  piquet  with  her  gentlewoman  before  he  had  well  quitted 
the  room  on  his  last  visit.  "Tierce  to  a  king"  were  the  last  words 
he  ever  heard  her  say :  the  game  of  life  was  pretty  nearly  over  for 
the  good  lady,  and  three  months  afterwards  she  took  to  her  bed, 
where  she  flickered  out  without  any  pain,  so  the  Abbe  Gauthier 
wrote  over  to  Mr.  Esmond,  then  with  his  General  on  the  frontier  of 
France.  The  Lady  Castlewood  was  with  her  at  her  ending,  and  had 
written  too,  but  these  letters  must  have  been  taken  by  a  privateer 
in  the  packet  that  brought  them ;  for  Esmond  knew  nothing  of 
their  contents  until  his  return  to  England. 


878  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

My  Lady  Castle  wood  had  left  everything  to  Colonel  Esmond,  "as 
a  reparation  for  the  wrong  done  to  him;"  'twas  writ  in  lier  will. 
But  l^er  fortune  was  not  much,  for  it  never  had  been  large,  and  the 
lionest  Viscountess  had  wisely  sunk  most  of  the  money  she  had 
upon  an  annuity  which  terminat'  d  with  her  life.  However,  there 
was  the  house  and  furniture,  plate  and  pictures  at  Chelsey,  and  a 
sum  of  money  lying  at  her  merchant's,  Sir  Josiah  Child,  which 
altogether  would  realise  a  sum  of  near  three  hundred  pounds  per 
annum,  so  that  Mr.  Esmond  found  himself,  if  not  rich,  at  least  easy 
for  life.  Likevv'ise  there  were  the  famous  diamonds  v.'hich  had 
been  said  to  be  worth  fabulous  sums,  though  the  goldsmith  pro- 
nounced they  would  fetch  no  more  than  four  thousand  pounds. 
These  diamonds,  however,  Colonel  Esmond  reserved,  having  a 
special  use  for  them;  but  the  Chelsey  house,  plate,  goods,  &c.,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  articles  which  he  kept  back,  were  sold  by 
his  orders ;  and  the  sums  resulting  from  the  sale  invested  in  the 
public  securities  so  as  to  realise  the  aforesaid  annual  income  of 
three  hundred  pounds. 

Having  now  something  to  leave,  he  made  a  will  and  despatched 
it  home.  The  army  was  now  in  presence  of  the  enemy ;  and  a  great 
battle  expected  every  day.  'Twas  knowm  that  the  General-in-Chief 
was  in  disgrace,  and  the  parties  at  home  strong  against  him,  and 
there  was  no  stroke  this  great  and  resolute  player  would  not  ven- 
ture to  recall  his  fortune  when  it  seemed  desperate.  Frank  Castle- 
wood  was  with  Colonel  Esmond ;  his  General  having  gladly  taken 
tlie  young  nobleman  on  to  his  staff.  His  studies  of  fortification  at 
Bruxelles  were  over  by  this  time.  The  fort  he  was  besieging  had 
yielded,  I  believe,  and  my  Lord  had  not  only  marched  in  with  fly- 
ing colours,  but  marched  out  again.  He  used  to  tell  his  boyish 
^^'ickedness  with  admirable  humour,  and  was  the  most  charming 
young  scapegrace  in  the  army, 

'Tis  needless  to  say  that  Colonel  Esmond  had  left  every  penny 
of  his  little  fortune  to  this  boy.  It  was  the  Colonel's  firm  convic- 
tion that  the  next  battle  would  i)ut  an  end  to  him:  for  he  felt 
aweary  of  the  sun,  and  quite  ready  to  bid  that  and  the  earth  fare- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  379 

wellV  Frank  would  not  listen  to  his  comrade's  gloomy  forebodings, 
but  swore  they  would  keep  his  birthday  at  Castlewood  that  autumn, 
after  the  campaign.  He  had  heard  of  the  engagement  at  home. 
"If  Prince  Eugene  goes  to  London,"  says  Frank,  "and  Trix  can  get 
hold  of  him,  she'll  jilt  Ashburnham  for  his  Highness.  I  tell  you, 
she  used  to  make  eyes  at  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when  she  was 
only  fourteen,  and  ogling  poor  little  Blandford.  I  wouldn't  marry 
her,  Harry— no,  not  if  her  eyes  were  twice  as  big.  I'll  take  my 
fun.  I'll  enjoy  for  the  next  three  years  every  possible  pleasure. 
I'll  sow  my  wild  oats  then,  and  marry  some  quiet,  steady,  modest, 
sensible  Viscountess ;  hunt  my  harriers ;  and  settle  down  at  Castle- 
wood. Perhaps  I'll  represent  the  county— no,  damme,  you  shall 
represent  the  county.  You  have  the  brains  of  the  family.  By  the 
Lord,  my  dear  old  Harry,  you  have  the  best  head  and  the  kindest 
heart  in  all  the  army ;  and  every  man  says  so — and  when  the  Queen 
dies,  and  the  King  comes  back,  why  shouldn't  you  go  to  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  be  a  Minister,  and  be  made  a  Peer,  and  that  sort 
of  thing?  You  be  shot  in  the  next  action!  I  wager  a  dozen  of 
burgundy  you  are  not  touched.  Mohun  is  well  of  his  wound.  He 
is  always  with  Corporal  John  now.  As  soon  as  ever  I  see  his  ugly 
face  I'll  spit  in  it.  I  took  lessons  of  Father— of  Captain  Holt  at 
Bruxelles.  What  a  man  that  is !  He  knows  everything. "  Esmond 
bade  Frank  have  a  care;  that  Father  Holt's  knowledge  was  rather 
dangerous;  not,  indeed,  knowing  as  yet  how  far  the  Father  had 
pushed  his  instructions  with  his  young  pupiL 

The  gazetteers  and  writers,  both  of  the  French  and  English  side, 
have  given  accounts  sufficient  of  that  bloody  battle  of  Blaregnies 
or  Malplaquet,  which  was  the  last  and  the  hardest  earned  of  tlie 
victories  of  the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough.  In  that  tremendous 
combat  near  upon  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men  were 
engaged,  more  than  thirty  thousand  of  whom  were  slain  or 
wounded  (the  Allies  lost  twice  as  many  men  as  they  killed  of  the 
French,  whom  they  conquered) :  and  this  dreadful  slaughter  very 
likely  took  place  because  a  great  General's  credit  was  shaken  at 
home,  and  he  thought  to  restore  it  by  a  victory.     If  such  were  the 


380  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

motives  which  induced  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  to  venture  that 
prodigious  stake,  and  desperately  sacrifice  thirty  thousand  brave 
lives,  so  that  he  might  figure  once  more  in  a  Gazette,  and  hold  his 
places  and  pensions  a  little  longer,  the  event  defeated  the  dreadful 
and  selfish  design,  for  the  victory  was  purchased  at  a  cost  which  no 
nation,  greedy  of  glory  as  it  might  be,  would  willingly  pay  for  any 
triumpli.  The  gallantry  of  the  French  was  as  remarkable  as  the 
furious  bravery  of  their  assailants.  We  took  a  few  score  of  their 
flags,  and  a  few  pieces  of  their  artillery ;  but  we  left  twenty  thou- 
sand of  the  bravest  soldiers  of  the  w^orld  round  about  the  intrenched 
lines,  from  which  the  enemy  was  driven.  He  retreated  in  perfect 
good  order ;  the  panic-spell  seemed  to  be  broke  under  which  the 
French  had  laboured  ever  since  the  disaster  of  Hochstedt ;  and, 
fighting  now  on  the  threshold  of  their  country,  they  showed  an 
heroic  ardour  of  resistance,  such  as  had  never  met  us  in  the  course 
of  their  aggressive  war.  Had  the  battle  been  more  successful,  the 
conqueror  might  have  got  the  price  for  which  he  waged  it.  As  it 
was  (and  justly,  I  think),  the  party  adverse  to  the  Duke  in  England 
were  indignant  at  the  lavish  extravagance  of  slaughter,  and 
demanded  more  eagerly  than  ever  the  recall  of  a  chief  whose  cupid- 
ity and  desperation  might  urge  him  further  still.  After  this 
bloody  fight  of  Malplaquet,  I  can  answer  for  it,  that  in  the  Dutch 
quarters  and  our  own,  and  amongst  the  very  regiments  and  com- 
manders whose  gallantry  was  most  conspicuous  upon  this  frightful 
day  of  carnage,  the  general  cry  was,  that  there  was  enough  of  the 
war.  The  French  were  driven  back  into  their  own  boundary,  and 
all  their  conquests  and  booty  of  Flanders  disgorged.  As  for  the 
Prince  of  Savoy,  with  wdiom  our  Commander-in-Chief,  for  reasons 
of  his  own,  consorted  more  closely  than  ever,  'twas  known  that  he 
was  animated  not  merely  by  a  political  hatred,  but  by  personal 
rage  against  the  old  French  King:  tlie  Imperial  Generalissimo 
never  forgot  the  slight  put  by  Lewis  upon  the  Abbe  de  Savoie ;  and 
in  the  humiliation  or  ruin  of  his  most  Christian  Majesty,  the  Holy 
Roman  Emperor  found  his  account.  But  what  were  these  quarrels 
to  us,  the  free  citizens  of  England  and  Holland?    Despot  as  he  was. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  381 

the  French  monarch  was  yet  the  chief  of  European  civilisation, 
more  venerable  in  his  age  and  misfortunes  than  at  the  period  of  his 
most  splendid  successes ;  whilst  his  opponent  was  but  a  semi-bar- 
barous tyrant,  with  a  pillaging,  murderous  horde  of  Croats  and 
Pandours,  composing  a  half  of  his  army,  filling  our  camp  with  their 
strange  figures,  bearded  like  the  miscreant  Turks  their  neighbours, 
and  carrying  into  Christian  warfare  their  native  heathen  habits  of 
rapine,  lust,  and  murder.  Why  should  the  best  blood  in  England 
and  France  be  shed  in  order  that  the  Holy  Roman  and  Apostolic 
master  of  these  ruffians  should  have  his  revenge  over  the  Christian 
King?  And  it  was  to  this  end  we  were  fighting;  for  this  that 
every  village  and  family  in  England  was  deploring  the  death  of 
beloved  sons  and  fathers.  We  dared  not  speak  to  each  other,  even 
at  table,  of  Malplaquet,  so  frightful  were  the  gaps  left  in  our  army 
by  the  cannon  of  that  bloody  action.  'Twas  heartrending  for  an 
officer  who  had  a  heart  to  look  down  his  line  on  a  parade-day  after- 
wards, and  miss  hundreds  of  faces  of  comrades— humble  or  of  high 
rank — that  had  gathered  but  yesterday  full  of  courage  and  cheer- 
fulness round  the  torn  and  blackened  flags.  Where  were  our 
friends?  As  the  great  Duke  reviewed  us,  riding  along  our  lines 
with  his  fine  suite  of  prancing  aides-de-camp  and  generals,  stopping 
here  and  there  to  thank  an  officer  with  those  eager  smiles  and  bows 
of  which  his  Grace  was  always  lavish,  scarce  a  huzzah  could  be 
got  for  him,  though  Cadogan,  with  an  oath,  rode  up  and  cried, 

"D you,  why  don't  you  cheer?"     But  the  men  had  no  heart  for 

that:  not  one  of  them  but  was  thinking,  "Where's  my  comrade? — 
Where's  my  brother  that  fought  by  me,  or  my  dear  captain  that  led 
me  yesterday?"'  'Twas  the  most  gloomy  pageant  I  ever  looked  on: 
and  the  "Te  Deum"  sung  by  our  chaplains,  the  most  woeful  and 
dreary  satire. 

Esmond's  General  added  one  more  to  the  many  marks  of  honour 
which  he  had  received  in  the  front  of  a  score  of  battles,  and  got  a 
wound  in  the  groin,  which  laid  him  on  his  back ;  and  you  may  be 
sure  he  consoled  himself  by  abusing  the  Commander-in-Chief,  as  he 
lay  groaning:  "Corporal  John's  as  fond  of  me,"  he  used  to  say,  "as 


382  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

King  David  was  of  Geneial  Uriah;  and  so  he  always  gives  me  the 
post  of  danger."  He  persisted,  to  his  dying  day,  in  believing  that 
the  Duke  intended  he  should  be  beat  at  Wynendael,  and  sent  him 
purposely  with  a  small  force,  hoping  that  he  might  be  knocked  on 
the  head  there.  Esmond  and  Frank  Castlewood  both  escaped 
without  hurt,  though  the  division  which  our  General  commanded 
suffered  even  more  than  any  other,  having  to  sustain  not  only  the 
fury  of  the  enemy's  cannonade,  which  was  very  hot  and  well 
served,  but  the  furious  and  repeated  charges  of  the  famous  Mai  son 
du  Roy,  which  we  had  to  receive  and  beat  off  again  and  again,  with 
volleys  of  shot  and  hedges  of  iron,  and  our  four  lines  of  musqueteers 
and  pikemen.  They  said  the  King  of  England  charged  us  no  less 
than  twelve  times  that  day,  along  with  the  French  Household. 
Esmond's  late  regiment,  General  Webb's  own  Fusileers,  served  in 
the  division  which  their  Colonel  commanded.  The  General  was 
thrice  in  the  centre  of  the  square  of  the  Fusileers,  calling  the  fire  at 
the  French  charges,  and,  after  the  action,  his  Grace  the  Duke  of 
Berwick  sent  his  compliments  to  his  old  regiment  and  their  Colonel 
for  their  behaviour  on  the  field. 

We  drank  my  Lord  Castlewood's  health  and  majority,  the  25th 
of  September,  the  army  being  then  before  Mons :  and  here  Colonel 
Esmond  was  not  so  fortunate  as  he  had  been  in  actions  much  more 
dangerous,  and  was  hit  by  a  spent  ball  just  above  the  place  where 
ills  former  wound  was,  which  caused  the  old  wound  to  open  again, 
fever,  spitting  of  blood,  and  other  ugly  symptoms,  to  ensue ;  and, 
in  a  word,  brought  him  near  to  death's  door.  The  kind  lad,  his 
kinsman,  attended  his  elder  comrade  with  a  very  praiseworthy 
affectionatgness  and  care  until  he  was  pronounced  out  of  danger  by 
the  doctors,  when  Frank  went  off,  passed  the  winter  at  Bruxelles, 
and  besieged,  no  doubt,  some  other  fortress  there.  Very  few  lads 
would  have  given  up  their  pleasures  so  long  and  so  gaijy  as  Frank 
did;  his  cheerful  prattle  soothed  many  long  days  of  Esmond's  pain 
and  languor.  Frank  was  supposed  to  be  still  at  his  kinsman's 
bedside  for  a  month  after  he  had  left  it,  for  letters  came  from  his 
mother  at  home  full  of  thanks  to  the  younger  gentleman  for  his 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  383 

care  of  his  elder  brother  (so  it  pleased  Esmond's  mistress  now  affec- 
tionately to  style  him) ;  nor  was  Mr.  Esmond  in  a  hurry  to  unde- 
ceive her,  when  the  good  young  fellow  was  gone  for  his  Christmas 
holiday.  It  was  as  pleasant  to  Esmond  on  his  couch  to  watch  the 
young  man's  pleasure  at  the  idea  of  being  free,  as  to  note  his  simple 
efforts  to  disguise  his  satisfaction  on  going  away.  There  are  days 
when  a  flask  of  champagne  at  a  cabaret,  and  a  red-cheeked  partner 
to  share  it,  are  too  strong  temptations  for  any  young  fellow  of  spirit. 
I  am  not  going  to  play  the  moralist,  and  cry  "Fie!"  For  ages  past, 
I  know  how  old  men  preach,  and  what  young  men  practise ;  and 
that  patriarchs  have  had  their  weak  moments  too,  long  since  Father 
Noah  toppled  over  after  discovering  the  vine.  Frank  went  off, 
then,  to  his  pleasures  at  Bruxelles,  in  which  capital  many  young 
fellows  of  our  army  declared  they  found  infinitely  greater  diversion 
even  than  in  London :  and  Mr.  Henry  Esmond  remained  in  his  sick- 
room, where  he  writ  a  fine  comedy,  that  his  mistress  pronounced  to 
be  sublime,  and  that  was  acted  no  less  than  three  successive  nights 
in  London  in  the  next  year. 

Here,  as  he  lay  nursing  himself,  ubiquitous  Mr.  Holt  reappeared, 
and  stopped  a  whole  month  at  Mons,  where  he  not  only  won  over 
Colonel  Esmond  to  the  King's  side  in  politics  (that  side  being 
always  held  by  the  Esmond  family) ;  but  where  he  endeavoured  to 
re-open  the  controversial  question  between  the  Churches  once  more, 
and  to  recall  Esmond  to  that  religion  in  which,  in  his  infancy,  he 
had  been  baptized.  Holt  was  a  casuist,  both  dexterous  and  learned, 
and  presented  the  case  between  the  English  Church  and  his  ow^n  in 
such  a  way  that  those  who  granted  his  premises  ought  certainly  to 
allow  his  conclusions.  He  touched  on  Esmond's  delicate  state  of 
health,  chance  of  dissolution,  and  so  forth ;  and  enlarged  upon  the 
immense  benefits  that  the  sick  man  was  likely  to  forego — benefits 
which  the  Church  of  England  did  not  deny  to  those  of  the  Roman 
Communion,  as  how  should  she,  being  derived  from  that  Church, 
and  only  an  offshoot  from  it?  But  Mr.  Esmond  said  that  his 
Church  was  the  Church  of  his  country,  and  to  that  he  chose  to 
remain  faithful :  other  people  were  welcome  to  worship  and  to  sub- 


384  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

scribe  any  other  set  of  articles,  whether  at  Rome  or  at  Augsburg. 
But  if  the  good  Father  meant  that  Esmond  should  join  the  Roman 
communion  for  fear  of  consequences,  and  that  all  England  ran  the 
risk  of  being  damned  for  heresy,  Esmond,  for  one,  was  perfectly 
willing  to  take  his  chance  of  the  penalty  along  with  the  countless 
millions  of  his  fellow-countrymen,  who  were  bred  in  the  same 
faith,  and  along  with  some  of  the  noblest,  the  truest,  the  purest, 
the  wisest,  the  most  pious  and  learned  men  and  women  in  the 
world. 

As  for  the  political  question,  in  that  Mr.  Esmond  could  agree 
with  the  Father  much  more  readily,  and  had  come  to  the  same 
conclusion,  though,  perhaps,  by  a  different  way.  The  right  divine, 
about  which  Dr.  Sacheverel  and  the  High  Church  party  in  England 
v,'ere  just  now  making  a  bother,  they  were  welcome  to  hold  as  they 
chose.  If  Richard  Cromwell  and  his  father  before  liim  had  been 
crowned  and  anointed  (and  bishops  enough  would  have  been  found 
to  do  it),  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Esmond  that  they  would  have  had  the 
right  divine  just  as  much  as  any  Plantagenet,  or  Tudor,  or  Stuart. 
But  the  desire  of  the  country  being  unquestionably  for  an  heredi- 
tary monarchy,  Esmond  thought  an  English  king  out  of  St  Ger- 
iiiains  was  better  and  fitter  than  a  German  prince  from  Herren- 
hausen,  and  that  if  he  failed  to  satisfy  the  nation,  some  other 
Englishman  might  be  found  to  take  his  place;  and  so,  though  with 
no  frantic  enthusiasm,  or  worship  of  that  monstrous  pedigree  which 
the  Tories  chose  to  consider  divine,  he  was  ready  to  say,  "God  save 
King  James!"  when  Queen  Anne  went  the  w^ay  of  kings  and  com- 
moners. 

"I  fear,  Colonel,  you  are  no  better  than  a  republican  at  heart," 
snys  the  priest  with  a  sigh. 

"I  am  an  Englishman,"  says  Harry,  "and  take  my  country  as  I 
find  her.  The  will  of  the  nation  being  for  Church  and  King,  I  am 
for  Church  and  King  too;  but  English  Church  and  English  King- 
and  that  is  why  your  Church  isn't  mine,  though  your  King  is." 

Though  they  lost  the  day  at  Malplaquet,  it  was  the  French  who 
were  elated  by  that  action,  whilst  the  conquerors  were  dispirited 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  385 

by  it;  and  the  enemy  gathered  together  a  larger  army  than  ever, 
and  made  prodigious  efforts  for  the  next  campaign.  Marshal  Ber- 
wick was  with  the  French  this  year;  and  we  heard  that  Mareschal 
Villars  was  still  suffering  of  his  wound,  was  eager  to  bring  our 
Duke  to  action,  and  vowed  he  would  fight  us  in  his  coach.  Young 
Castlewood  came  flying  back  from  Bruxelles  as  soon  as  he  heard 
that  fighting  was  to  begin ;  and  the  arrival  of  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
George  was  announced  about  May.  "It's  the  King's  third  cam- 
paign, and  it's  mine,''  Frank  liked  saying.  He  was  come  back  a 
greater  Jacobite  than  ever,  and  Esmond  suspected  that  some  fair 
conspirators  at  Bruxelles  had  been  inflaming  the  young  man's 
ardour.  Indeed,  he  owned  that  he  had  a  message  from  the  Queen, 
Beatrix's  godmother,  who  had  given  her  name  to  Frank's  sister  the 
year  before  he  and  his  sovereign  were  born. 

However  desirous  Mareschal  Villars  might  be  to  fight,  my  Lord 
Duke  did  not  seem  disposed  to  indulge  him  this  campaign.  Last 
year  his  Grace  had  been  all  for  the  Whigs  and  Hanoverians ;  but 
finding,  on  going  to  England,  his  country  cold  towards  himself, 
^nd  the  people  in  a  ferment  of  High  Church  loyalty,  the  Duke 
comes  back  to  his  army  cooled  towards  the  Hanoverians,  cautious 

«'th  the  Imperialists,  and  particularly  civil  and  polite  towards  the 
tevalier  de  St.  George.  'Tis  certain  that  messengers  and  letters 
were  continually  passing  between  his  Grace  and  his  brave  nephew, 
the  Duke  of  Berwick,  in  the  opposite  camp.  No  man's  caresses 
were  more  opportune  than  his  Grace's,  and  no  man  ever  uttered 
expressions  of  regard  and  affection  more  generously.  He  professed 
to  Monsieur  de  Torcy,  so  Mr.  St.  John  told  the  writer,  quite  an 
eag^d^ess  to  be  cut  in  pieces  for  the  exiled  Queen  and  her  family ; 
nay  more,  I  believe,  this  year  he  parted  with  a  portion  of  the  most 
precious  part  of  himself — his  money — which  he  sent  over  to  the 
royal  exiles.  Mr.  Tunstal,  who  was  in  the  Prince's  service,  was 
twice  or  thrice  in  and  out  of  our  camp ;  the  French,  in  theirs  of 
Arlieu  and  about  Arras.  A  little  river,  the  Canihe  I  tliink  'twas 
called  (but  this  is  writ  away  from  books  and  Europe;  and  the  only 
map  the  writer  hath  of  tliese  scenes  of  his  youth,  bears  no  mark  of 


386  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

this  little  stream),  divided  our  picquets  from  the  enemy's.  Our 
sentries  talked  across  the  stream,  when  they  could  make  themselves 
understood  to  each  other,  and  when  they  could  not,  grinned,  and 
handed  each  other  their  brandy-flasks  or  their  pouches  of  tobacco. 
And  one  flne  day  of  June,  riding  thither  with  the  officer  who 
visited  the  outposts  (Colonel  Esmond  was  taking  an  airing  on 
horseback,  being  too  weak  for  military  duty),  they  came  to  this 
river,  where  a  number  of  English  and  Scots  were  assembled,  talk- 
ing to  the  good-natured  enemy  on  the  other  side. 

Esmond  was  especially  amused  with  the  talk  of  one  long  fellow, 
with  a  great  curling  red  moustache,  and  blue  eyes,  that  was  half-a- 
dozen  inches  taller  than  his  swarthy  little  comrades  on  the  French 
side  of  the  stream,  and  being  asked  by  the  Colonel,  saluted  him, 
and  said  that  he  belonged  to  the  Roj^al  Cravats. 

From  his  way  of  saying  "Roj^al  Cravat,'"  Esmond  at  once  knew 
that  the  fellow's  tongue  had  first  wagged  on  the  banks  of  the 
Liffej',  and  not  the  Loire;  and  the  poor  soldier— a  deserter  prob- 
ably—did not  like  to  venture  very  deep  into  French  conversation, 
lest  his  unlucky  brogue  should  peep  out.  He  chose  to  restrict  him^ 
self  to  such  few  expressions  in  the  French  language  as  he  thouglit 
he  had  mastered  easih' ;  and  his  attempt  at  disguise  was  infinitej 
amusing.  Mr.  Esmond  whistled  Lillibullero,  at  which  Teagi 
eyes  began  to  twinkle,  and  then  flung  him  a  dollar,  when  the  poor 
boy  broke  out  with  a  "God  bless — that  is,  Dieu  benisse  votre 
honor,"'  that  would  infallibly  have  sent  him  to  the  provost-marshal 
had  he  been  on  our  side  of  the  river. 

Whilst  this  parley  was  going  on,  three  oflicers  on  horseback,  on 
the  French  side,  appeared  at  some  little  distance,  and  stoppeJ||s  if 
eyeing  us,  when  one  of  them  left  the  other  two,  and  rode  close  up 
to  us  who  were  by  the  stream.  "Look,  look!"  says  the  Royal 
Cravat,  with  great  agitation,  "pas  lui,  that's  he;  not  him,  I'autre, "* 
and  pointed  to  the  distant  ofiicer  on  a  chestnut  horse,  with  a  cuirass 
shining  in  the  sun,  and  over  it  a  broad  blue  riband. 

"Please  to  take  Mr.  Hamilton's  services  to  m}^  Lord  Marl- 
borough— my  Lord  Duke,"   says  the  gentleman  in  English;    and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  387 

looking  to  see  that  the  party  were  not  liostilely  disposed,  he  added, 
with  a  smile,  "There's  a  friend  of  yours,  gentlemen,  yonder;  he 
bids  me  to  say  that  he  saw  some  of  your  faces  on  the  11th  of  Sep- 
tember last  year." 

As  the  gentleman  spoke,  the  other  two  officers  rode  up,  and  came 
quite  close.  We  knew  at  once  who  it  was.  It  was  the  King,  then 
two-and-twenty  years  old,  tall  and  slim,  with  deep  brown  eyes,  that 
looked  melancholy,  though  his  lips  wore  a  smile.  We  took  off  our 
hats  and  saluted  him.  No  man.  sure,  could  see  for  the  first  time, 
without  emotion,  the  youthful  inheritor  of  so  much  fame  and  mis- 
fortune. It  seemed  to  Mr.  Esmond  that  the  Prince  was  not  unlike 
young  Castlewood,  whose  age  and  figure  he  resembled.  The 
Chevalier  de  St.  George  acknowledged  the  salute,  and  looked  at  us 
hard.  Even  tlie  idlers  on  our  side  of  the  river  set  up  a  hurrah.  As 
for  the  Royal  Cravat,  he  ran  to  the  Prince's  stirrup,  knelt  down  and 
kissed  his  boot,  and  bawled  and  looked  a  hundred  ejaculations  and 
blessings.  The  Prince  bade  the  aide-de-camp  give  him  a  piece  of 
money ;  and  when  the  party  saluting  us  had  ridden  away.  Cravat 
spat  upon  the  piece  of  gold  by  way  of  benediction,  and  swaggered 
away,  pouching  his  coin  and  twirling  his  honest  carroty  moustache. 
_^^^  The  officer  in  whose  company  Esmond  was,  the  same  little  cap- 
Nfffcain  of  Handyside's  regiment,  Mr.  Sterne,  who  had  proposed  the 
garden  at  Lille,  when  my  Lord  Mohun  and  Esmond  had  their  affair, 
was  an  Irishman  too,  and  as  brave  a  little  soul  as  ever  wore  a  sword. 
"Bedad,"  says  Roger  Sterne,  "that  long  fellow  spoke  French  so 
beautiful  that  I  shouldn't  have  known  he  wasn't  a  foreigner,  till  he 
broke  out  with  his  huUa-ballooing,  and  only  an  Irish  calf  can  bel- 
low jRlce  that."  And  Roger  made  another  remark  in  his  wild  way, 
in  which  there  was  sense  as  well  as  absurdity:  "If  that  young  gen- 
tleman," says  he,  "would  but  ride  over  to  our  camp,  instead  of  Vil- 
lars's,  toss  up  his  hat  and  say,  'Here  am  I,  the  King,  who'll  follow 
me?'  by  the  Lord,  Esmond,  the  whole  army  would  rise  and  carry 
him  home  again,  and  beat  Villars,  and  take  Paris  by  the  way." 

The  news  of  the  Prince's  visit  was  all  through  the  camp  quickly, 
and  scores  of  ours  went  down  in  hopes  to  see  him.     Major  Hamil- 


388  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

ton,  whom  we  had  talked  with,  sent  back  by  a  trumpet  several 
silver  pieces  for  officers  with  us.  Mr.  Esmond  received  one  of 
these;  and  that  medal,  and  a  recompense  not  uncommon  amongst 
Princes,  were  the  only  rewards  he  ever  had  from  a  Royal  person 
whom  he  endeavoured  not  very  long  after  to  serve. 

Esmond  quitted  the  army  almost  immediately  after  this,  follow- 
ing his  General  home ;  and,  indeed,  being  advised  to  travel  in  the 
fine  weather  and  attempt  to  take  no  further  part  in  the  campaign. 
But  he  heard  from  the  army,  that  of  the  many  who  crowded  to  see 
the  Chevalier  de  St  George,  Frank  Castlewood  had  made  himself 
most  conspicuous:  my  Lord  Viscount  riding  across  the  little  stream 
bareheaded  to  w^iere  the  Prince  was,  and  dismounting  and  kneel- 
ing before  him  to  do  him  homage.  Some  said  that  the  Prince  had 
actually  knighted  him,  but  my  Lord  denied  that  statement,  though 
he  acknowledged  the  rest  of  the  story,  and  said :  "From  having  been 
out  of  favour  with  Corporal  John,"  as  he  called  the  Duke,  "before, 
his  Grace  warned  him  not  to  commit  those  follies,  and  smiled  on 
him  cordially  ever  after." 

"And  he  was  so  kind  to  me,"  Frank  writ,  "that  I  thought  I 
would  put  in  a  good  word  for  Master  Harry,  but  wlien  I  mentioned 
your  name  he  looked  as  black  as  thunder,  and  said  he  had  nev^ 
heard  of  you."  M 


CHAPTER  II 

/  I  GO  HOME,  AND  HARP  ON  THE  OLD  STRING 

After  quitting  Mons  and  the  army,  and  as  he  was  waiting  for  a 
packet  at  Ostend,  Esmond  had  a  letter  from  his  young  kinsman 
Castlewood  at  Bruxelles,  conveying  intelligence  whereof  Frank 
besought  him  to  be  the  bearer  to  London,  and  which  caused  Colonel 
Esmond  no  small  anxiety 

The  young  scapegrace,  being  one-and-twenty  years  old,  and 
being  anxious  to  sow  his  "wild  otes,"  as  he  wrote,  Ixad  married 
Mademoiselle  de  Wertheim,  daughter  of  Count  de  Wertheim,  Cham- 
berlain to  the  Emperor,  and  having  a  post  in  the  Household  of  the 
Governor  of  the  Netherlands.  "P.>S., "  the  young  gentleman  wrote: 
"Clotilda  is  older  than  me,  which  perhaps  may  be  objected  to  her: 
but  I  am  so  old  a  raik  that  the  age  makes  no  difference,  and  I  am 
determined  to  reform.  We  were  married  at  St.  Gudule,  by  Father 
Holt.  She  is  heart  and  soul  for  the  good  cause.  And  here  the  cry 
is  Vif-le-Roy,  which  my  mother  will  join  iti,  and  Trix  too.  Break 
this  news  to  'em  gently :  and  tell  Mr.  Finch,  my  agent,  to  press  the 
people  for  their  rents,  and  send  me  the  ryno  anyhow.  Clotilda 
sings,  and  plays  on  the  spinet  beautifully.  She  is  a  fair  beauty. 
And  if  it's  a  son,  j^ou  shall  stand  Godfather.  I'm  going  to  leave 
the  army,  having  had  enuf  of  soldering;  and  my  Lord  Duke  recom- 
mends me.  I  shall  pass  the  winter  here:  and  stop  at  least  until 
Clo's  lying-in.  I  call  her  old  Clo,  but  nobody  else  shall.  She  is  the 
cleverest  woman  in  all  Bruxelles:  understanding  painting,  music, 
poetry,  and  perfect  at  cookery  and  puddens.  I  horded  with  the 
Count,  that's  how  I  came  to  know  her.  There  are  four  Counts  her 
brothers.  One  an  Abbey — three  with  the  Prince's  army.  They 
have  a  lawsuit  for  an  inimence  fortune:  but  are  now  in  a  pore 
way.     Break  this  to  mother,  who'll  take  anything  from  you.     And 

BS9 


390  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

write,  and  bid  Finch  write  amediatehj.     Hostel  de  I'Aigle  Noire, 
Bruxelles,  Flanders.'' 

So  Frank  had  married  a  Roman  Catholic  lady,  and  an  heir  was 
expected,  and  Mr.  Esmond  was  to  carry  this  intelligence  to  his  mis- 
tress at  London.  'Twas  a  difficult  embassy ;  and  the  Colonel  felt 
not  a  little  tremor  as  he  neared  the  capital. 

He  reached  his  inn  late,  and  sent  a  messenger  to  Kensington  to 
announce  his  arrival  and  visit  the  next  morning.  The  messenger 
brouglit  back  news  that  the  Court  was  at  Windsor,  and  the  fair 
Beatrix  absent  and  engaged  in  her  duties  there.  Only  Esmond's 
mistress  remained  in  her  house  at  Kensington.  She  appeared  in 
Court  but  once  in  the  year;  Beatrix  was  quite  the  mistress  and 
ruler  of  the  little  mansion,  inviting  the  company  thither,  and 
engaging  in  every  conceivable  frolic  of  town  pleasure;  whilst  her 
mother,  acting  as  the  young  lady's  protectress  and  elder  sister,  pur- 
sued her  own  path,  which  was  quite  modest  and  secluded. 

As  soon  as  ever  Esmond  was  dressed  (and  he  had  been  awake 
long  before  the  town),  he  took  a  coach  for  Kensington,  and  reached 
it  so  early  that  he  met  his  dear  mistress  coming  home  from  morn 
ing  prayers.  She  carried  her  prayer-book,  never  allowing  a  foot- 
man to  bear  it,  as  everybody  else  did :  and  it  was  hj  this  simple  sign 
Esmond  knew  what  her  occupation  had  been.  He  called  to  the 
coachman  to  stop,  and  jumped  out  as  she  looked  towards  him.  Slie 
wore  her  hood  as  usual,  and  she  turned  quite  pale  when  she  saw 
him.  To  feel  that  kind  little  hand  near  to  his  heart  seemed  to  give 
him  strength.  They  were  soon  at  the  door  of  her  Ladyship'r 
house — and  within  it. 

With  a  sweet  sad  smile  she  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"How  ill  you  have  been:  how  weak  you  look,  my  dear  Henry!" 
she  said. 

'Tis  ceitain  the  Colonel  did  look  like  a  ghost,  except  that  ghosts 
do  not  look  verj'  happy,  'tis  said.  Esmond  always  felt  so  on 
returning  to  her  after  absence,  indeed  whenever  he  looked  in  her 
sweet  kind  face. 

*'I  am  come  back  to  be  nursed  bv  mv  family,"  says  he.     "If 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  391 

Frank  had  not  taken  care  of  me  after  my  wound,  very  likely  1 
should  have  gone  altogether. 

"Poor  Frank,  good  Frank!*'  says  his  mother.  "You'll  always 
be  kind  to  him,  my  Lord,"  she  went  on.  "The  poor  child  never 
knew  he  was  doing  you  a  wrong." 

"My  Lord!"  cries  out  Colonel  Esmond.  "What  do  you  mean, 
dear  lady?" 

"I  am  no  lady,"  says  she;  "I  am  Rachel  Esmond,  Francis 
Esmond's  widow,  ray  Lord.  I  cannot  bear  that  title.  Would  v.-e 
never  had  taken  it  from  him  who  has  it  nosv.  But  we  did  all  i» 
our  power,  Henry:  we  did  all  in  our  power;  and  my  Lord  and  I — 
that  is " 

"Who  told  you  this  tale,  dearest  lady?"  asked  the  Colonel. 

"Have  you  not  had  the  letter  I  writ  you?  I  writ  to  you  at  Mons 
directly  I  heard  it,"  says  Lady  Esmond. 

"And  from  whom?"  again  asked  Colonel  Esmond— and  his  mis- 
tress then  told  him  that  on  her  deathbed  the  Dowager  Countess, 
sending  for  her,  had  presented  her  with  this  dismal  secret  as  a 
legacy.  " 'Twas  very  malicious  of  the  Dowager,"  Lady  Esmond 
said,  "to  have  had  it  so  long,  and  to  have  kept  the  truth  from  me." 
"Cousin  Rachel,"  she  said — and  Esmond's  mistress  could  not  for- 
bear smiling  as  she  told  the  story — "Cousin  Rachel,"  cries  the 
Dowager,  "I  have  sent  for  you,  as  the  doctors  say  I  may  go  off  any 
day  in  this  dysentery ;  and  to  ease  my  conscience  of  a  great  load 
that  has  been  on  it.  You  always  have  been  a  poor  creature  and 
unfit  for  great  honour,  and  what  I  have  to  say  won't,  therefore, 
affect  you  so  much.  You  must  know.  Cousin  Rachel,  that  I  have 
left  my  house,  plate,  and  furniture,  three  thousand  pounds  in 
money,  and  my  diamonds  that  my  late  revered  Saint  and  Sover- 
eign, King  James,  presented  me  with,  to  my  Lord  Viscount  Castle- 
wood." 

"To  my  Frank?"  says  Lady  Castlewood:     "I  was  in  hopes " 

'To  Viscount  Castlewood,  my  dear ;  Viscount  Castlewood  and 
Baron  Esmond  of  Shandon  in  the  Kingdom  of  Ireland,  Earl  and 
Martxuis  of  Esmond  under  patent  of  his  Majesty  King  James  the 


392  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Second,  conferred  upon  my  husband  the  late  Marquis — for  I  am 
Marchioness  of   Esmond  before  God  and  man."" 

"And  have  you  left  poor  Harry  nothing,  dear  Marchioness?"'  asks 
Lady  Castlewood  (she  hath  told  me  the  story  completely  since  with 
her  quiet  archway;  the  most  charming  any  woman  ever  had:  and  I 
set  down  the  narrative  here  at  length,  so  as  to  have  done  with  it). 
"And  have  you  left  poor  Harry  nothing?"'  asks  my  dear  lady:  "for 
you  know,  Henry,"  she  says  with  her  sweet  smile,  "I  used  always 
to  pity  Esau  —and  I  think  I  am  on  his  side — though  papa  tried  very 
hard  to  convince  me  the  other  way." 

"Poor  Harry!"  says  the  old  lady.  "So  you  want  something  left 
to  poor  Harry:  he, — he!  (reach  me  the  drops,  cousin).  "Well,  then, 
my  dear,  since  you  want  poor  Plarry  to  have  a  fortune,  you  must 
understand  that  ever  since  the  j^ear  1691,  a  week  after  the  battle  of 
the  Boyne,  where  the  Prince  of  Orange  defeated  his  roj'al  sovereign 
and  father,  for  wdiich  crime  he  is  now  suffering  in  flames  (ugh! 
ugh!),  Henry  Esmond  hath  been  Marquis  of  Esmond  and  Earl  of 
Castlewood  in  the  United  Kingdom,  and  Baron  and  Viscount 
Castlewood  of  Shandon  in  Ireland,  and  a  Baronet — and  his  eldest 
son  will  be,  by  courtesy,  styled  Earl  of  Castlewood — he !  he !  What 
do  you  think  of  that,  my  dear?" 

"Gracious  mercy!  how  long  have  you  known  this?"  cries  the 
other  lady  (thinking  perhaps  that  the  old  Marchioness  was  wander- 
ing in  her  wits). 

'My  husband,  before  he  was  converted,  was  a  wicked  wretch," 
the  sick  sinner  continued.  "When  he  w^as  in  the  Low  Countries 
he  seduced  a  w^eaver's  daughter;  and  added  to  his  wickedness  by 
marrying  her.  And  then  he  came  to  this  country  and  married  me 
— a  poor  girl — a  poor  innocent  young  thing — I  say," — "though  she 
was  past  fort}^  you  know,  Harry,  when  she  married:  and  as  for 

being  innocent "    "Well,"  she  went  on,  "I  knew  nothing  of  my 

Lord's  wickedness  for  three  years  after  our  marriage,  and  after  the 
burial  of  our  poor  little  boy  I  had  it  done  over  again,  my  dear:  I 
had  myself  married  by  Father  Holt  in  Castlewood  chapel,  as  soon  as 
ever  I  heard  the  creature  was  dead— and  having  a  great  illness  then. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  39? 

arising  from  another  sad  disappointment  I  had,  the  priest  came  and 
told  me  that  mj^  Lord  had  a  son  before  our  marriage,  and  that  the 
child  was  at  nurse  in  England ;  and  I  consented  to  let  the  brat  be 
brought  home,  and  a  queer  little  melancholy  child  it  was  when  it 
came. 

"Our  intention  was  to  make  a  priest  ot  him:  and  he  was  bred 
for  this,  until  you  perverted  him  from  it,  you  wicked  woman.  And 
I  had  again  hopes  of  giving  an  heir  to  my  Lord,  when  he  w^as  called 
away  upon  the  King's  business,  and  died  fighting  gloriously  at  the 
Boyne  water. 

"Should  I  be  disappointed — I  owed  your  husband  no  love,  my 
dear,  for  he  had  jilted  me  in  the  most  scandalous  way— I  thought 
there  would  be  time  to  declare  the  little  weaver's  son  for  the  true 
heir.  But  I  was  carried  off  to  prison,  where  your  husband  w^as  so 
kind  to  me — urging  all  his  friends  to  obtain  my  release,  and  using 
-  all  his  credit  in  my  favour — that  I  relented  towards  him,  especially 
as  my  director  counselled  me  to  be  silent ;  and  that  it  was  for  the 
good  of  the  King's  service  that  the  title  of  our  family  should  con- 
tinue with  your  husband  the  late  Viscount,  whereby  his  fidelity 
would  be  always  secured  to  the  King.  And  a  proof  of  this  is,  that 
a  year  before  your  husband's  death,  w^hen  he  thought  of  taking  a 
place  under  the  Prince  of  Orange,  Mr.  Holt  went  to  him,  and  told 
him  what  the  state  of  the  matter  was,  and  obliged  him  to  raise  a 
large  sum  for  his  Majesty,  and  engaged  him  in  the  true  cause  so 
heartily,  that  we  w^ere  sure  of  his  support  on  any  day  when  it 
should  be  considered  advisable  to  attack  the  usurper.  Then  his 
sudden  death  came;  and  there  was  a  thought  of  declaring  the 
truth.  But  'twas  determined  to  be  best  for  the  King's  service  to 
let  the  title  still  go  with  the  younger  branch;  and  there's  no  sacri- 
fice a  Castlewood  wouldn't  make  for  that  cause  my  dear. 

"As  for  Colonel  Esmond,  he  knew  the  truth  already."  ("And 
then,  Harry,"  my  mistress  said,  "she  told  me  of  what  had  happened 
at  my  dear  husband's  deathbed. ")  "He  doth  not  intend  to  take  the 
title,  though  it  belongs  to  him.  But  it  eases  my  conscience  that 
you  should  know  the  truth,  my  dear.     And  your  son  is  lawfully 

I 


394  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Viscount  Castlewood  so  long  as  his  cousin  doth  not  claim  the 
rank. 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  Dowager's  revelation.  Dean 
Atterbury  had  knowledge  of  it,  Lady  Castlewood  said,  and  Esmond 
very  well  knows  how:  that  "divine  being  the  clergyman  for  whom 
the  late  lord  had  sent  on  his  deathbed ;  and  when  Lady  Castlewood 
would  instantly  have  written  to  her  son,  and  conveyed  the  truth  to 
him,  the  Dean's  advice  was  that  a  letter  should  be  writ  to  Colonel 
Esmond  rather;  that  the  matter  should  be  submitted  to  his 
decision,  by  which  alone  the  rest  of  the  family  were  bound  to 
tibide. 

"And  can  my  dearest  lady  doubt  what  that  will  be?"  says  the 
Holonel. 

"It  rests  with  you,  Harry,  as  the  head  of  our  house." 

"It  was  settled  twelve  years  since,  by  my  dear  lord's  bedside," 
says  Colonel  Esmond.  "The  children  must  know  nothing  of  this. 
Frank  and  his  heirs  after  him  must  bear  our  name.  'Tis  his  right- 
fully: I  have  not  even  a  proof  of  that  marriage  of  my  father  and 
mother,  though  my  poor  lord,  on  his  deathbed,  told  me  that  Father 
Holt  had  brought  such  a  proof  to  Castlewood.  I  would  not  seek  it 
when  I  was  abroad.  I  went  and  looked  at  my  poor  mother's  grave 
in  her  convent.  What  matter  to  her  now?  No  court  of  lav,-  on 
earth,  upon  my  mere  word,  would  deprive  my  Lord  Viscount  and  set 
me  up.  I  am  the  head  of  the  house,  dear  lady;  but  Frank  is 
Viscount  of  Castlewood  still.  And  rather  than  disturb  him,  I  would 
turn  monk,  or  disappear  in  America." 

As  he  spoke  so  to  his  dearest  mistress,  for  whom  he  would  have 
been  willing  to  give  up  his  life,  or  to  make  any  sacrifice  any  day, 
the  fond  creature  flung  herself  down  on  her  knees  before  him,  and 
kissed  both  his  hands  in  an  outbreak  of  passionate  love  and  grati- 
tude, such  as  could  not  but  melt  his  heart,  and  make  him  feel  very 
proud  and  thankful  that  God  had  given  him  tlie  power  to  show  his 
love  for  her,  and  to  prove  it  by  some  little  sacrifice  on  his  own  part. 
To  be  able  to  bestow  benefits  or  happiness  on  those  one  loves  is  sure 
the  greatest  blessing  conferred  upon  a  man — and  what  wealth  or 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  395 

name,  or  gratification  of  ambition  or  vanity,  could  compare  with 
the  pleasure  Esmond  now  had  of  being  able  to  confer  some  kindness 
upon  his  best  and  dearest  friends? 

"Dearest  saint,"  says  he — "purest  soul,  that  has  had  so  much  to 
suffer,  that  has  blest  the  j)00i*  lonely  orphan  with  such  a  treasure 
of  love!  'Tis  for  me  to  kneel,  not  for  you;  'tis  for  me  to  be  thank- 
ful that  I  can  make  j^ou  happy.  Hath  my  life  any  other  aim? 
v^ Blessed  be  God  that  I  can  serve  you!  What  pleasure,  think  you, 
could  all  the  world  give  me  compared  to  that?" 

"Don't  raise  me,"  she  said,  in  a  wild  way,  to  Esmond,  who 
would  have  lifted  her,  "Let  me  kneel — let  me  kneel,  and — and — 
worship  you." 

Before  such  a  partial  judge  as  Esmond's  dear  mistress  owned 
herself  to  be,  any  cause  which  he  might  plead  w^as  sure  to  be  given 
in  his  favour;  and  accordingly  he  found  little  difficulty  in  recon- 
ciling her  to  the  news  whereof  he  was  bearer,  of  her  son's  marriage 
to  a  foreign  lady,  Papist  though  she  was.  Lady  Castlewood  never 
could  be  brought  to  think  so  ill  of  tliat  religion  as  other  people  in 
England  thought  of  it:  she  held  that  ours  was  undoubtedly  a. 
branch  of  the  Catholic  Church,  but  that  the  Roman  was  one  of  th& 
main  stems  on  which,  no  doubt,  many  errors  had  been  grafted  (she 
was,  for  a  woman,  extraordinarily  well  versed  in  this  controversj^ 
having  acted,  as  a  girl,  as  secretary  to  her  father,  the  late  Dean, 
and  written  many  of  his  sermons,  under  his  dictation) ;  and  if 
Frank  had  chosen  to  marry  a  lady  of  the  Church  of  South  Europe, 
as  she  would  call  the  Roman  communion,  there  was  no  need  why 
she  should  not  welcome  her  as  a  daughter-in-law:  and  accordingly 
she  wrote  to  her  new  daughter  a  very  pretty,  touching  letter  (as 
Esmond  thought,  who  liad  cognisance  of  it  before  it  went),  in 
which  the  only  hint  of  reproof  was  a  gentle  remonstrance  that  her 
son  had  not  written  to  herself,  to  ask  a  fond  mother's  blessing  for 
that  step  wliich  he  was  about  taking.  "Castlewood  knew  very 
well,"  so  she  vx-rote  to  her  son,  "that  she  never  denied  him  anything^ 
in  her  power  to  gi^e,  mueli  less  would  she  think  of  opposing  a  mar- 


396  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

riage  that  was  to  make  his  happiness,  as  she  trusted,  and  keep  him 
out  of  wild  courses,  which  had  alarmed  her  a  good  deal:"  and  she 
besought  him  to  come  quickly  to  England,  to  settle  down  in  his 
family  house  of  Castlewood  ("It  is  his  family  house,"  sa^'s  she  to 
Colonel  Esmond,  "though  only  his  own  house  by  your  forbearance") 
and  to  receive  the  accompt  of  her  stewardship  during  his  ten  years' 
minority.  By  care  and  frugality,  she  had  got  the  estate  into  a 
better  condition  than  ever  it  had  been  since  the  Parliamentary  wars; 
and  my  Lord  was  now  master  of  a  pretty,  small  income,  not  encum- 
bered of  debts,  as  it  had  been  during  his  father's  ruinous  time. 
^'But  in  saving  my  son's  fortune,"  says  she,  "I  fear  I  have  lost  a 
great  part  of  my  hold  on  him."  And,  indeed,  this  was  the  case: 
her  Ladyship's  daughter  complaining  that  their  mother  did  all  for 
Frank,  and  nothing  for  her;  and  Frank  himself  being  dissatisfied 
at  the  narrov^,  simple  way  of  his  mother's  living  at  Walcote,  where 
he  had  been  brought  up  more  like  a  poor  parson's  son  than  a  young 
nobleman  that  was  to  make  a  figure  in  the  world.  'Twas  this  mis- 
take in  his  early  training,  very  likely,  that  set  him  so  eager  upon 
pleasure  when  he  had  it  in  his  power;  nor  is  he  the  first  lad  that 
has  been  spoiled  by  the  over-careful  fondness  of  women.  No  train 
ing  is  so  useful  for  children,  great  or  small,  as  the  company  of 
their  betters  in  rank  or  natural  parts ;  in  whose  society  they  lose 
the  overweening  sense  of  their  own  importance,  which  stay-at- 
home  people  very  commonly  learn. 

But,  as  a  prodigal  that's  sending  in  a  schedule  of  his  debts  to  his 
friends,  never  puts  all  down,  and,  you  may  be  sure,  the  rogue  keeps 
back  some  immense  swingeing  bill,  that  he  doesn't  dare  to  own;  so 
the  poor  Frank  had  a  very  heavy  i)iece  of  news  to  break  to  his 
mother,  and  which  he  hadn't  the  courage  to  introduce  into  his  first 
confession.  Some  misgivings  Esmond  might  have,  upon  receiving 
Frank's  letter,  and  knowing  into  what  hands  the  boy  had  fallen ; 
but  whatever  tliese  misgivings  were,  he  kept  them  to  liimself,  not 
caring  to  trouble  his  mistress  with  any  fears  that  might  be 
groundless. 

However,  the  next  mail  which  came  from  Bruxelles  after  Frank 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  397 

had  received  his  mother's  letters  there,  brought  back  a  joint  coiii- 
positiou  from  himself  and  his  wife,  who  could  spell  no  better  than 
her  young  scapegrace  of  a  husband,  full  of  expressions  of  thanks, 
love,  and  duty  .to  the  Dowager  Viscountess,  as  my  poor  lady  now 
was  styled;  and  along  with  this  letter  (which  was  read  in  a  family 
council,  namely,  the  Viscountess,  Mistress  Beatrix,  and  the  writer 
of  this  memoir,  and  which  was  pronounced  to  be  vulgar  by  the 
Maid  of  Honour,  and  felt  to  be  so  by  the  other  two)  there  came  a 
private  letter  for  Colonel  Esmond  from  poor  Frank,  with  another 
dismal  commission  for  the  Colonel  to  execute,  at  his  best  oppor- 
tunity; and  this  was  to  announce  that  Frank  had  seen  fit,  "by  the 
exhortation  of  Mv.  Holt,  the  influence  of  his  Clotilda,  and  the  bless- 
ing of  Heaven  and  the  saints,"  says  my  Lord  demurely,  "to change 
his  religion,  and  be  received  into  the  bosom  of  that  Church  of 
which  his  sovereign,  many  of  his  family,  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  civilised  world,  were  members."  And  his  Lordship  added  a 
postscript,  of  which  Esmond  knew  the  inspiring  genius  very  well, 
for  it  had  the  genuine  twang  of  the  Seminary,  and  was  quite  unlike 
poor  Frank's  ordinary  style  of  writing  and  thinking ;  in  which  he 
reminded  Colonel  Esmond  that  he  too  was,  by  birth,  of  that 
Church;  and  that  his  mother  and  sister  should  have  his  Lordship's 
prayers  to  the  saints  (an  inestimable  benefit,  truly!)  for  their 
conversion. 

If  Esmond  had  wanted  to  keep  this  secret,  he  could  not ;  for  a 
day  or  two  after  receiving  this  letter,  a  notice  from  Bruxelles 
appeared  in  the  Post-Boy  and  other  prints,  announcing  that  "a 
young  Irish  lord,  the  Viscount  C-stlew — d,  just  come  to  his  major- 
ity, and  who  had  served  the  last  campaigns  wdth  great  credit,  as- 
aide-de-camp  to  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  had  declared 
for  the  Popish  religion  at  Bruxelles,  and  had  walked  in  a  procession 
barefoot,  with  a  wax-taper  in  his  hand."  The  notorious  Mr.  Holt, 
who  had  been  employed  as  a  Jacobite  agent  during  the  last  reign, 
and  many  times  pardoned  by  King  William,  had  been,  the  Post-Boy 
said,  the  agent  of  this  conversion. 

The  Lady  Castlewood  was  as  much  cast  down  by  this  news  as 


398  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Miss  Beatrix  was  indignant  at  it.  "So,"  says  she,  ''Castlewood  is 
no  longer  a  home  for  us,  mother.  Frank's  foreign  wife  will  bring 
her  confessor,  and  there  will  be  frogs  for  dinner;  and  all  Tusher's 
and  my  grandfather's  sermons  are  flung  away  upon  my  brother.  I 
used  to  tell  you  that  you  killed  him  with  the  Catechism,  and  that 
he  would  turn  wicked  as  soon  as  he  broke  from  his  mammy's  lead- 
ing-strings. O  mother,  you  would  not  believe  that  the  young 
scapegrace  was  playing  you  tricks,  and  that  sneak  of  a  Tusher  was 
not  a  fit  guide  for  him.  Oh,  those  parsons,  1  hate  'em  all!*'  says 
Mistress  Beatrix,  clapping  her  hands  together;  "yes,  wlietlier  they 
wear  cassocks  and  buckles,  or  beards  and  bare  feet.  There's  a 
horrid  Irish  wretch  who  never  misses  a  Sunday  at  Court,  and  who 
paj's  me  compliments  there,  the  horrible  man;  and  if  you  want  to 
know  what  parsons  are,  you  should  see  his  behaviour,  and  hear  him 
talk  of  his  own  cloth.  They're  all  the  same,  whether  they're 
bishops,  or  bonzes,  or  Indian  fakirs.  They  try  to  domineer,  and 
they  frighten  us  with  kingdom  come;  and  they  wear  a  sanctified 
air  in  public,  and  expect  us  to  go  down  on  our  knees  and  ask  their 
blessing ;  and  they  intrigue,  and  they  grasp,  and  they  backbite,  and 
they  slander  worse  than  the  worst  courtier  or  the  wickedest  old 
woman.  I  heard  this  Mr.  Swift  sneering  at  my  Lord  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough's courage  the  other  day.  He!  that  Teague  from  Dublin! 
because  his  Grace  is  not  in  favour,  dares  to  say  this  of  him ;  and  he 
says  this  that  it  may  get  to  her  Majesty's  ear,  and  to  coax  and 
wheedle  Mrs.  Masham.  They  say  the  Elector  of  Hanover  has  a  dozen 
of  mistresses  in  his  Court  at  Herrenhausen,  and  if  he  comes  to  be 
king  over  us,  I  wager  that  the  bishops  and  Mr.  Swift,  that  wants  to 
be  one,  will  coax  and  wheedle  them.  Oh,  those  priests  and  their 
grave  airs!  I'm  sick  of  their  square  toes  and  their  rustling 
cassocks.  I  should  like  to  go  to  a  country  where  there  %%'as  not  one, 
or  turn  Quaker,  and  get  rid  of  'em ;  and  I  would,  only  the  dress  is 
not  becoming,  and  I've  much  too  pretty  a  ligure  to  hide  it. 
Haven't  I,  cousin?"  and  here  she  glanced  at  her  person  and  the 
looking-glass,  which  told  her  rightlj"  that  a  more  beautiful  shape 
and  face  never  were  seen. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  399 

''I  made  that  onslaught  on  the  priests/'  says  Miss  Beatrix,  after- 
wards, in  order  to  divert  my  poor  dear  motlier's  anguisli  about 
Frank.  Frank  is  as  vain  as  a  girl,  cousin.  Talk  of  us  girls  being 
vain,  what  are  ice  to  you?  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  first  woman 
who  chose  would  ma,ke  a  fool  of  him,  or  the  first  robe— I  count  a 
priest  and  a  woman  all  the  same.  We  are  always  caballing;  we 
are  not  answerable  for  the  fibs  we  tell;  we  are  always  cajoling  and 
coaxing  or  threatening;  and  we  are  always  making  mischief, 
Colonel  Esmond — mark  my  word  for  tliat,  who  know  the  world,  sir, 
and  have  to  make  my  way  in  it  I  see  as  well  as  possible  how 
Fra:  ik's  marriage  hath  been  managed.  The  Count,  our  papa-in-law, 
is  always  away  at  the  coffee-house.  The  Countess,  our  mother,  is 
always  in  the  kitchen  looking  after  the  dinner.  The  Countess,  our 
sister,  is  at  the  spinet.  When  my  Lord  comes  to  say  he  is  going  on 
the  campaign,  the  lovely  Clotilda  bursts  into  tears,  and  faints — so; 
he  catches  her  in  his  arms — no,  sir,  keep  your  distance,  cousin,  if 
you  please — she  cries  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  says,  'O  my  divine, 
my  adored,  my  beloved  Clotilda,  are  you  sorry  to  part  with  me?' 
'O  my  Francisco,'  saj'S  she,  'O  my  Lord!'  and  at  this  very  instant 
mamma  and  a  couple  of  3'oung  brothers,  with  moustaches  and  long 
rapiers,  come  in  from  the  kitchen,  wliere  they  have  been  eating 
bread  and  onions.  Mark  my  word,  you  will  have  all  this  woman's 
relations  at  Castlewood  three  months  after  slie  has  arrived  there. 
The  old  count  and  countess,  and  the  young  counts,  and  all 
the  little  countesses  her  sisters.  Counts!  every  one  of  these 
wretches  says  he  is  a  count.  Guiscard,  that  stabbed  Mr.  Harvey, 
said  he  was  a  count;  and  I  believe  he  was  a  barber.  All  French- 
men are  barbers — Fiddledee!  don't  contradict  me — or  else  dancing- 
masters,  or  else  priests."'     And  so  she  rattled  on. 

"Who  vv'as  it  tauglit  you  to  dance,  Cousin  Beatrix?"  says  the 
Colonel. 

Slie  laughed  out  the  air  of  a  minuet,  and  swept  a  low  curtsey, 
coming  up  to  the  recover  with  the  prettiest  little  foot  in  the  world 
pointed  out  Her  mother  came  in  as  she  was  in  this  attitude;  my 
Lady  had  been  in  lier  closet,  having  taken  poor  Frank's  conversion 


400  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

in  a  very  serious  way ;  the  madcap  girl  ran  up  to  her  mother,  put 
her  arms  round  her  waist,  kissed  her,  tried  to  make  her  dance,  and 
said,  "Don't  be  silly,  you  kind  little  mamma,  and  cry  about  Frank 
turning  Papist.  What  a  figure  he  mast  be,  with  a  white  sheet  and 
ii  candle,  walking  in  a  procession  barefoot!"  And  she  kicked  off 
her  little  slippers  (the  wonderfullest  little  shoes  witli  wonderful  tall 
red  heels:  Esmond  pounced  upon  one  as  it  fell  close  beside  him), 
and  she  put  on  the  drollest  little  moiie,  and  marched  up  and  dov\'n 
the  room  holding  Esmond's  cane  by  way  of  taper.  Serious  as  her 
mood  was,  Lady  Castlewood  could  not  refrain  from  laughing ;  and 
as  for  Esmond  he  looked  on  with  that  delight  with  which  the  sight 
of  this  fair  creature  always  inspired  him :  never  had  he  seen  any 
woman  so  arch,  so  brilliant,  and  so  beautiful. 

Having  finished  her  march,  she  put  out  her  foot  for  her  slipper. 
The  Colonel  knelt  down:  "If  you  will  be  Pope  I  will  turn  Papist," 
says  he;  and  her  Holiness  gave  him  gracious  leave  to  kiss  the  little 
stockinged  foot  before  he  put  the  slipper  on. 

Mamma's  feet  began  to  pat  on  the  floor  during  this  operation, 
and  Beatrix,  whose  bright  eyes  nothing  escaped,  saw  that  little 
mark  of  impatience.  She  ran  up  and  embraced  her  mother,  with  her 
usual  cry  of,  "O  you  silly  little  mamma :  your  feet  are  quite  as  pretty 
as  mine,"  says  she.  "they  are,  cousin,  though  she  hides  'em;  but  the 
shoemaker  will  tell  you  that  he  makes  for  both  off  the  same  last." 

"You  are  taller  than  I  am,  dearest,"  says  her  mother,  blushing 
over  her  whole  sweet  face — "and — and  it  is  your  hand,  my  dear, 
and  not  your  foot  he  wants  you  to  give  him;"  and  she  said  it  with  a 
hysteric  laugh,  that  had  more  of  tears  than  laughter  in  it ;  laying 
her  head  on  her  daughter's  fair  shoulder,  and  hiding  it  there.  They 
made  a  very  pretty  picture  together,  and  looked  like  a  pair  of 
sisters — the  sweet  simple  matron  seeming  younger  than  her  years, 
and  her  daughter,  if  not  older,  yet  somehow,  from  a  commanding 
manner  and  grace  which  she  possessed  above  most  women,  her 
mother's  superior  and  protectress. 

"But  oh !"  cries  my  mistress,  recovering  herself  after  this  scene, 
and  returning  to  her  usual  sad  tone,  "  'tis  a  shame  that  we  should 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  401 

laugh  and  be  making  merry  on  a  day  when  we  ought  to  be  down  on 
our  knees  and  asking  pardon." 

"Asking  pardon  for  what?"  says  saucy  Mrs.  Beatrix — "because 
Frank  takes  it  into  his  head  to  fast  on  Fridays  and  worship  images? 
You  know  if  you  had  been  born  a  Papist,  mother,  a  Papist  you 
would  have  remained  till  the  end  of  your  days!  'Tis  the  religion  of 
the  King  and  of  some  of  the  best  quality.  For  mj-  part,  I'm  no 
enemy  to  it,  and  think  Queen  Bess  was  not  a  penny  better  than 
Queen  Mary." 

'"Hush,  Beatrix!  Do  not  jest  with  sacred  things,  and  remember 
of  what  parentage  you  come,"  cries  my  Lady.  Beatrix  was  order- 
ing her  ribands,  and  adjusting  her  tucker,  and  performing  a  dozen 
provokingly  pretty  ceremonies  before  the  glass.  Tlie  girl  was  no 
hypocrite  at  least.  She  never  at  that  time  could  be  brought  to  think 
but  of  the  world  and  her  beauty ;  and  seemed  to  have  no  more  sense 
of  devotion  than  some  people  have  of  music,  that  cannot  dis- 
tinguish one  air  from  anotlier.  Esmond  saw  this  fault  in  her,  as  he 
saw  many  others — a  bad  wife  would  Beatrix  Esmond  make,  he 
thought,  for  any  man  under  the  degree  of  a  prince.  She  was  born 
to  shine  in  great  assemblies,  and  to  adorn  palaces,  and  to  command 
everywhere— to  conduct  an  intrigue  of  politics,  or  to  glitter  in  a 
queen's  train.  But  to  sit  at  a  homely  table,  and  mend  the  stock- 
ings of  a  poor  man's  children!  that  was  no  fitting  duty  for  her,  or 
at  least  one  that  she  wouldn't  have  broke  her  heart  in  trying  to  do. 
She  was  a  princess,  though  she  had  scarce  a  shilling  to  her  fortune; 
and  one  of  her  subjects— the  most  abject  and  devoted  wretch,  sure, 
that  ever  drivelled  at  a  woman's  knees — was  this  unluckj^  gentle- 
man; who  bound  his  good  sense,  and  reason,  and  independence, 
hand  an  J  foot,  and  submitted  them  to  her. 

And  who  does  not  know  how  ruthlessly  woman  will  tyrannise 
when  they  are  let  to  domineer?  and  who  does  not  know  how  useless 
advice  is?  I  could  give  good  counsel  to  my  descendants,  but  I  know 
they'll  follow  their  own  way,  for  all  their  grandfather's  sermon. 
A  man  gets  his  own  experience  about  women,  and  will  take  no- 
body's hearsay ;  nor,  indeed,  is  the  young  fellow  worth  a  fig  that 


403  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOJSD 

would.  'Tis  I  that  am  in  love  with  my  mistress,  not  my  old  grand- 
mother that  counsels  me:  'tis  I  that  have  fixed  the  value  of  the 
thing  I  would  have,  and  know  the  price  I  would  pay  for  it.  It  may 
be  worthless  to  you,  but  'tis  all  my  life  to  me.  Had  Esmond 
possessed  the  Great  Mogul's  crown  and  all  his  diamonds,  or  all  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough's  money,  or  all  the  ingots  sunk  at  Vigo,  he 
would  have  given  them  all  for  this  woman.  A  fool  he  was,  if  you 
will;  but  so  is  a  sovereign  a  fool,  that  will  give  half  a  principality 
for  a  little  crystal  as  big  as  a  pigeon's  egg,  and  called  a  diamond: 
so  is  a  wealthy  nobleman  a  fool,  that  will  face  danger  or  death,  and 
spend  half  his  life,  and  all  his  tranquillity,  caballing  for  a  blue 
riband ;  so  is  a  Dutch  merchant  a  fool,  that  hath  been  known  to 
pay  ten  thousand  crowns  for  a  tulip.  There's  some  particular  prize 
we  all  of  us  value,  and  that  every  man  of  spirit  will  venture  his  life 
for.  With  this,  it  may  be  to  achieve  a  great  reputation  for  learning; 
with  that,  to  be  a  man  of  fashion,  and  the  admiration  of  the  town ; 
with  another,  to  consummate  a  great  vrork  of  art  or  poetry,  and  go 
to  immortality  that  way ;  and  with  another,  for  a  certain  time  of 
his  life,  the  sole  object  and  aim  is  a  woman. 

Whilst  Esmond  was  under  the  domination  of  this  passion,  he 
remembers  many  a  talk  he  had  with  his  intimates,  who  used  to 
rally  Our  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  at  his  devotion, 
whereof  he  made  no  disguise,  to  Beatrix;  and  it  was  with  replies 
such  as  the  above  he  met  his  friends'  satire.  "Granted,  I  am  a 
fool,"  says  he,  "and  no  better  than  you;  but  you  are  no  better  than 
I.  You  have  your  folh' you  labour  for;  give  me  the  charity  of 
mine.  What  flatteries  do  you,  Mr.  St.  John,  stoop  to  whisper  in  the 
ears  of  a  queen's  favourite?  What  nights  of  labour  doth  not  the 
laziest  man  in  the  world  endure,  foregoing  his  bottle,  and  his  boon 
companions,  foregoing  Lais,  in  whose  lap  he  would  like  to  be  yawn- 
ing, that  he  may  prepare  a  speech  full  of  lies,  to  cajole  three 
hundred  stupid  country-gentlemen  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and 
get  the  hiccupping  cheers  of  the  October  Club !  Wliat  days  v.-ill 
you  spend  in  j^our  jolting  chariot''  (Mr.  Esmond  often  rocle  to 
Windsor,  and  especially:  of  later  daj'S,  with  the  Secretary).   "V/hat 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  403 

hours  will  you  pass  on  your  gouty  feet — and  how  humbly  will  you 
kneel  down  to  present  a  despatch — you,  the  proudest  man  in  the 
world,  that  has  not  knelt  to  God  since  you  were  a  bo3^  and  in  that 
posture  whisper,  flatter,  adore  almost,  a  stupid  woman,  that's  often 
boozy  with  too  much  meat  and  drink,  when  Mr.  Secretary  goes  for 
his  audience!  If  my  pursuit  is  vanit}^  sure  yours  is  too.''  x\nd 
then  the  Secretary  would  fly  out  in  such  a  rich  flow  of  eloquence  as 
this  pen  cannot  pretend  to  recall;  advocating  his  scheme  of  ambi- 
tion, showing  the  great  good  he  would  do  for  his  country  when  he 
was  the  undisputed  chief  of  it;  backing  his  opinion  with  a  score  of 
pat  sentences  from  Greek  and  Roman  authorities  (of  which  kind  of 
learning  he  inade  rather  an  ostentatious  display),  and  scornfully 
vaunting  the  very  arts  and  meannesses  by  which  fools  were  to  be 
made  to  follow  liim,  opponents  to  be  bribed  or  silenced,  doubters 
converted,  and  enemies  overawed. 

''I  am  Diogenes,"  says  Esmond,  laughing,  *'that  is  taken  up  for 
a  ride  in  Alexander's  chariot.  I  have  no  desire  to  vanquish  Darius 
or  to  tame  Bucephalus.  I  do  not  want  what  you  want,  a  great 
name  or  a  high  place:  to  have  them  would  bring  me  no  pleasure. 
But  my  moderation  is  taste,  not  virtue ;  and  I  know  that  what  I  do 
want  is  as  vain  as  that  which  you  long  after.  Do  not  grudge  me 
my  vanity,  if  I  allow  yours ;  or  rather,  let  us  laugh  at  both  indiffer- 
ently, and  at  ourselves,  and  at  each  other." 

"If  your  charmer  holds  out,''  says  St.  John,  "at  this  rate  she 
may  keep  you  twenty  years  besieging  her,  and  surrender  by  the 
time  you  are  seventy,  and  she  is  old  enough  to  be  a  grandmother. 
I  do  not  say  the  pursuit  of  a  particular  woman  is  not  as  pleasant  a 
pastime  as  any  other  kind  of  hunting,"  he  added;  "only,  for  my 
part,  I  find  the  game  won't  run  long  enough.  They  knock  under 
too  soon — that's  the  fault  I  find  with  'em." 

"The  game  which  you  pursue  is  in  the  habit  of  being  caught, 
and  used  to  being  pulled  down,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"But  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  is  peerless,  eh?"  says  the  other. 
"Well,  honest  Harry,  go  and  attack  windmills— perhaps  thou  art 
not  more  mad  than  other  people,"  St.  John  added,  v.-ith  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER   III 


A  PAPER  OUT   OF  THE    "SPECTATOR' 


Doth  any  young  gentleman  of  my  progen3^  who  .-tay  read  his 
old  grandfather's  papers,  chance  to  be  presently  suffering  under  the 
passion  of  Love?  There  is  a  humiliating  cure,  but  one  that  is  easy 
and  almost  specific  for  the  malady — which  is,  to  try  an  alibi. 
Esmond  went  away  from  his  mistress  and  was  cured  a  half-dozen 
times ;  he  came  back  to  her  side,  and  instantly  fell  ill  again  of  the 
fever.  He  vowed  that  he  could  leave  her  and  think  no  more  of  her, 
and  so  he  could  pretty  well,  at  least,  succeed  in  quelling  that  rage 
and  longing  he  had  whenever  he  was  with  her ;  but  as  soon  as  he 
returned  he  was  as  bad  as  ever  again  Truly  a  ludicrous  and  pit- 
iable object,  at  least  exhausting  everybody's  pity  but  his  dearest 
mistress's,  Lady  Castlewood's,  in  whose  tender  breast  he  reposed  all 
his  dreary  confessions,  and  who  never  tired  of  hearing  him  and 
pleading  for  him. 

Sometimes  Esmond  would  think  there  was  hope.  Then  again  he 
would  be  plagued  with  despair,  at  some  impertinence  or  coquetry 
of  his  mistress.  For  days  they  would  be  like  brother  and  sister,  or 
the  dearest  friends — she,  simple,  fond,  and  charming — he,  happy 
beyond  measure,  at  her  good  behaviour.  But  this  would  all  vanish 
on  a  sudden.  Either  he  would  be  too  pressing,  and  hint  his  love, 
when  she  would  rebuff  him  instantly,  and  give  his  vanity  a  box  on 
the  ear;  or  he  would  be  jealous,  and  with  perfect  good  reason,  of 
some  new  admirer  that  had  sprung  up,  or  some  rich  j^oung  gentle- 
man newly  arrived  in  the  town,  that  this  incorrigible  flirt  would 
set  her  nets  and  baits  to  draw  in.  If  Esmond  remonstrated,  the 
little  rebel  would  say,  "Who  are  you?  I  shall  ^o  rtiy  own  way, 
sirrah,  and  that  way  is  towards  a  husband,  and  I  don't  want  you  on 
the  way.     I  am  for  your  betters,  Colonel,  for  your  betters :  do  you 

404 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  405 

hear  that?  You  might  do  if  you  had  an  estate  and  were  younger: 
only  eight  years  older  than  I,  you  say  I  pish,  you  are  a  hundred 
years  older.  You  are  an  old,  old  Graveairs,  and  I  should  make  you 
miserable,  that  would  be  the  only  comfort  I  should  have  in  marry- 
ing you.  But  you  have  not  money  enough  to  keep  a  cat  decently 
after  you  have  paid  your  man  his  wages,  and  your  landlady  her 
bill.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  live  in  a  lodging,  and  turn  the 
/nutton  on  a  string  whilst  your  lionour  nurses  the  baby?  Fiddle- 
stick, and  why  did  you  not  get  this  nonsense  knocked  out  of  your 
head  when  you  were  in  the  wars?  You  are  come  back  more  dismal 
and  dreary  than  ever.  You  and  mamma  are  fit  for  each  other. 
You  might  be  Darby  and  Joan,  and  play  cribbage  to  the  end  of 
your  lives." 

"At  least  you  own  to  your  worldliness,  my  poor  Trix,"  saj's  her 
mother. 

"Worldliness!  O  my  pretty  lady !  Do  you  think  that  I  am  a 
child  in  the  nursery,  and  to  be  frightened  by  Bogey?  Worldliness, 
to  be  sure ;  and  pray,  madam,  where  is  the  harm  of  wishing  to  be 
comfortable?  When  you  are  gone,  you  dearest  old  woman,  or  when 
I  am  tired  of  you  and  have  run  away  from  you,  where  shall  I  go? 
Shall  I  go  and  be  head  nurse  to  my  Popish  sister-in-law,  take  the 
children  their  physic,  and  whip  'em,  and  put  'em  to  bed  when  they 
are  naughty?  Shall  I  be  Castle  wood's  upper  servant,  and  perhaps 
marry  Tom  Tusher?  Merci!  I  have  been  long  enough  Frank's 
humble  servant.  Why  am  I  not  a  man?  I  have  ten  times  his 
brains,  and  had  I  worn  the — well,  don't  let  your  Ladyship  be  fright- 
ened— had  I  worn  a  sword  and  periwig  instead  of  this  mantle  and 
commode  to  which  nature  has  condemned  me — (though  'tis  a  pretty 
stuff,  too — Cousin  Esmond !  you  will  go  to  the  Exchange  to-morrow, 
and  get  the  exact  counterpart  of  this  riband,  sir ;  do  jou  hear?) — I 
would  have  made  our  name  talked  about.  So  would  Graveairs  here 
have  made  something  out  of  our  name  if  he  liad  represented  it. 
My  Lord  Graveairs  would  have  done  very  well.  Yes,  you  have  a 
very  pretty  way,  and  would  have  made  a  very  decent,  grave 
speaker."     And  here  she  began  to  imitate  Esmond's  way  of  carry- 


40G  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

ing  liimself  and  speaking  to  his  face,  and  so  ludicrously  that  his 
mistress  burst  out  a-laughing,  and  even  he  himself  could  see  there 
was  some  likeness  in  the  fantastical  malicious  caricature. 

"Yes,"  says  she,  "I  solemnly  vow,  own,  and  confess,  that  I  want 
a  good  husband.  Where's  the  harm  of  one?  My  face  is  my  fortune. 
Who'll  come? — bm%  buy,  buy!  I  cannot  toil,  neither  can  I  spin. 
but  I  can  play  twenty-three  games  on  the  cards.  I  can  dance  t]:G 
last  dance,  I  can  hunt  the  stag,  and  I  think  I  could  shoot  flying. 
I  can  talk  as  wicked  as  any  woman  of  mj^  years,  and  know  enough 
stories  to  amuse  a  sulky  husband  for  at  least  one  thousand  and  one 
nights.  I  have  a  pretty  taste  for  dress,  diamonds,  gambling,  and 
old  China.  I  love  sugar-plums,  Malines  lace  (that  you  brought  me, 
cousin,  is  very  pretty),  the  opera,  and  everything  that  is  useless  and 
costly.  I  have  got  a  monkey  and  a  little  black  boy — Pompey,  sir, 
go  and  give  a  dish  of  chocolate  to  Colonel  Graveairs — and  a  parrot 
and  a  spaniel,  and  I  must  have  a  husband.     Cupid,  you  hear?'' 

"Iss,  missis!"  says  Pompey,  a  little  grinning  negro  Lord  Peter- 
borow  gave  her,  with  a  bird  of  paradise  in  his  turbant,  and  a  collar 
with  his  mistress'  name  on  it. 

"Iss,  missis!"  says  Beatrix,  imitating  the  child.  "And  if  hus- 
band not  come,  Pompey  must  go  fetch  one." 

And  Pompey  went  away  grinning  with  his  chocolate  tray  as 
Miss  Beatrix  ran  up  to  her  mother  and  ended  her  sally  of  mischief 
in  her  common  way,  with  a  kiss — no  wonder  that  upon  paying  such 
a  penalty  her  fond  judge  pardoned  her. 

When  Mr.  Esmond  came  home,  his  health  was  still  shattered ; 
and  he  took  a  lodging  near  to  his  mistresses,  at  Kensington,  glad 
enough  to  be  served  by  them,  and  to  see  them  day  after  day.  He 
was  enabled  to  see  a  little  company — and  of  the  sort  he  liked  best. 
Mr.  Steele  and  Mr.  Addison  both  did  him  the  honour  to  visit  liim  ; 
and  drank  many  a  glass  of  good  claret  at  his  lodging,  whilst  their 
entertainer,  through  his  wound,  was  kept  to  diet  drink  and  gruel. 
These  gentlemen  were  Whigs,  and  great  admirers  of  my  Lord  Duke 
of  Marlborough ;  and  Esmond  was  entirely  of  the  other  party.     But 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  407 

their  different  views  of  politics  did  not  prevent  the  gentlemen  from 
agreeing  in  private,  nor  from  allowing,  on  one  evening  when 
Esmond  s  kind  old  patron,  Lieutenant-General  Webb,  with  a  stick 
and  a  crutch,  hobbled  up  to  the  Colonel's  lodging  (which  was 
prettily  situate  at  Knightsbridge,  between  London  and  Kensington, 
and  looking  over  the  Gardens),  that  the  Lieutenant-General  was  a 
noble  and  gallant  soldier— and  even  that  he  had  been  hardly  used 
in  the  Wynendael  affair.  He  took  his  revenge  in  talk,  that  must  be 
confessed ;  and  if  Mr.  Addison  had  had  a  mind  to  write  a  poem 
about  Wynendael,  he  might  have  heard  from  the  commander's  own 
lips  the  story  a  hundred  times  over. 

Mr.  Esmond,  forced  to  be  quiet,  betook  himself  to  literature  for 
a  relaxation,  and  composed  his  comedy,  whereof  the  prompter's 
copy  lieth  in  my  walnut  escritoire,  sealed  up  and  docketed,  "The 
Faithful  Fool,  a  Comedy,  as  it  was  performed  by  her  Majesty's 
Servants."  'Twas  a  very  sentimental  piece;  and  Mr.  Steele,  wlio 
had  more  of  that  kind  of  sentiment  than  Mr.  Addison,  admired  it, 
whilst  the  other  rather  sneered  at  the  iDerformance ;  though  he 
owned  that,  here  and  there,  it  contained  some  pretty  strokes.  He 
w^as  bringing  out  his  own  play  of  "Cato"  at  the  ti^me,  the  blaze  of 
which  quite  extinguished  Esmond's  farthing  candle;  and  his  name 
was  never  put  to  the  piece,  which  was  printed  as  by  a  Person  of 
Quality,  Only  nine  copies  were  sold,  though  Mr.  Dennis,  the  great 
critic,  praised  it,  and  said  'twas  a  work  of  great  merit ;  and  Colonel 
Esmond  had  the  whole  impression  burned  one  day  in  a  rage,  by 
Jack  Lock  wood,  his  man. 

All  this  comedy  was  full  of  bitter  satiric  strokes  against  a  certain 
young  lady.  The  plot  of  the  piece  was  quite  a  new  one.  A  young 
woman  was  represented  with  a  great  number  of  suitors,  selecting  a 
pert  fribble  of  a  peer,  in  place  of  the  hero  (but  ill  acted,  I  think,  by 
Mr.  Wilks,  the  Faithful  Fool),  who  persisted  in  admiring  her.  In 
the  fifth  act,  Teraminta  was  made  to  discover  the  merits  of  Eugenio 
(the  F.  F.),  and  to  feel  a  partiality  for  him  too  late;  for  he 
announced  that  he  had  bestowed  his  hand  and  estate  upon  Rosaria, 
a  country  lass,  endowed  with  every  virtue.     But  it  must  be  ownea 


408  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

that  the  audience  yawned  through  the  play;  and  that  it  perished 
on  the  third  night,  with  only  half-a-dozen  persons  to  behold  its 
agonies.  Esmond  and  his  two  mistresses  came  to  the  tirst  night, 
and  Miss  Beatrix  fell  asleep;  whilst  her  mother,  who  had  not  been 
to  a  play  since  King  James  the  Second's  time,  thought  the  piece. 
though  not  brilliant,  had  a  very  pretty  moral. 

Mr.  Esmond  dabbled  in  letters,  and  wrote  a  deal  of  prose  and 
Terse  at  this  time  of  leisure.  When  displeased  with  the  conduct  of 
Miss  Beatrix,  he  would  compose  a  satire,  in  which  he  relieved  his 
mind.  When  smarting  under  the  faithlessness  of  women,  he  dashed 
off  a  copy  of  verses,  in  which  he  held  the  whole  sex  up  to  scorn. 
One  day  in  one  of  these  moods,  he  made  a  little  joke,  in  which 
(swearing  him  to  secrecy)  he  got  his  friend  Dick  Steele  to  help  him ; 
and,  composing  a  paper,  he  had  it  printed  exactly  like  Steele's 
paper,  and  by  his  printer,  ani^.  laid  on  his  mistress'  breakfast-table 
the  following— 

"Spectator. 

"No.  341.  "Tuesdaij,  April  1,  1712. 

Mutato  nomine  de  te  Fabula  narratur.— Horace. 
Thyself  the  moral  of  the  Fable  see.— Creech. 

"Jocasta  is  known  as  a  woman  of  learning  and  fashion,  and  as 
one  of  the  most  amiable  persons  of  this  court  and  country.  She  is 
at  home  two  mornings  of  the  week,  and  all  the  wits  and  a  few  of 
the  beauties  of  London  flock  to  her  assemblies  When  she  goes 
abroad  to  Tunbridge  or  the  Bath,  a  retinue  of  adorers  rides  the 
journey  with  her ;  and  besides  the  London  beaux,  she  has  a  crowd 
of  admirers  at  the  Wells,  the  polite  amongst  the  natives  of  Sussex 
and  Somerset  pressing  round  her  tea-tables,  and  being  anxious  for 
a  nod  from  her  chair.  Jocasta's  acquaintance  is  thus  very  numer- 
ous. Indeed,  'tis  one  smart  writer's  work  to  keep  her  visiting-book 
— a  strong  footman  is  engaged  to  carry  it;  and  it  would  require  a 
much  stronger  head  even  than  Jocasta's  own  to  remember  the 
names  of  all  her  dear  friends. 

"Either  at  Epsom  Wells  or  Tunbridge  (for  of  this  important 
matter  Jocasta  cannot  be  certain)  it  was  her  Ladyship's  fortune  to 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  i09 

become  acquainted  with  a  young  gentleman,  whose  conversation 
was  so  sprightly,  and  manners  amiable,  that  she  invited  the  agree- 
able young  spark  to  visit  her  if  ever  he  came  to  London,  where  hei- 
house  in  Spring  Garden  should  be  open  to  him.  Charming  as  he 
was,  and  without  any  manner  of  doubt  a  pretty  fellow,  Jocasta 
hath  such  a  regiment  of  the  like  continually  marching  round  her 
standard,  that  'tis  no  wonder  her  attention  is  distracted  amongst 
them.  And  so,  though  this  gentleman  made  a  considerable  impres- 
sion upon  her,  and  touched  her  heart  for  at  least  three-and-twent}^ 
minutes,  it  must  be  owned  that  she  has  forgotten  his  name.  He  is 
a  dark  man,  and  may  be  eight-and-twenty  years  old.  His  dress  is 
sober,  though  of  rich  materials.  He  has  a  mole  on  his  forehead 
over  his  left  eye ;  has  a  blue  riband  to  his  cane  and  sword,  and 
wears  his  own  hair. 

"Jocasta  was  much  flattered  by  beholding  her  admirer  (for  that 
everybody  admires  who  sees  her  is  a  point  which  she  never  can  for 
a  moment  doubt)  in  the  next  pew  to  her  at  St.  James's  Church  last 
Sunday;  and  the  manner  in  which  he  appeared  to  go  to  sleep 
during  the  sermon — though  from  under  his  fringed  eyelids  it  was 
evident  he  was  casting  glances  of  respectful  rapture  towards  Jocasta 
— deeply  moved  and  interested  her.  On  coming  out  of  church  he 
found  his  way  to  her  chair,  and  made  her  an  elegant  bow  as  she 
stepped  into  it.  She  saw  him  at  Court  afterwards,  where  he  carried 
himself  with  a  most  distinguished  air,  though  none  of  her  acquaint- 
ances knew  his  name;  and  the  next  night  he  was  at  the  play,  where 
her  Ladyship  was  pleased  to  acknowledge  him  from  the  side-box. 

"During  the  whole  of  the  comedy  she  racked  her  brains  so  to 
remember  his  name  that  she  did  not  hear  a  word  of  the  piece ;  and 
having  the  happiness  to  meet  him  once  more  in  the  lobby  of  the 
playhouse,  she  went  up  to  him  in  a  flutter,  and  bade  him  remember 
that  she  kept  two  nights  in  the  week,  and  that  she  longed  to  see 
him  at  Spring  Garden. 

"He  appeared  on  Tuesday,  in  a  rich  suit,  showing  a  very  fine 
taste  both  in  the  tailor  and  wearer ;  and  though  a  knot  of  us  were 
gathered  round  the  charming  Jocasta,  fellows  who  pretended  to 


410  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

know  every  face  upon  the  town,  not  one  could  tell  the  gentleman's 
name  in  reply  to  Jocasta's  eager  inquiries,  Hung  to  the  right  and 
left  of  her  as  he  advanced  up  the  room  with  a  bow  that  would 
become  a  duke. 

"Jocasta  acknowledged  this  salute  with  one  of  those  smiles  and 
curtseys  of  which  that  lady  hath  the  secret.  She  curtseys  with  a 
languishing  air,  as  if  to  say,  'You  are  come  at  last.  I  have  been 
pining  for  you:'  and  then  she  finishes  her  victim  with  a  killing 
Icok,  which  declares:  'O  Philander!  I  have  no  eyes  but  for  you.' 
Camilla  hath  as  good  a  curtsey  perhaps,  and  Thalestris  much  such 
another  look ;  but  the  glance  and  the  curtsey  together  belong  to 
Jocasta  of  all  the  English  beauties  alone. 

"'Welcome  to  London,  sir,' says  she.  'One  can  see  you  are 
from  the  country  by  your  looks.'  She  would  have  said  'Epsom,'  or 
'Tunbridge,'  had  she  remembered  rightly  at  which  place  she  had 
met  the  stranger;  but,  alas!  she  had  forgotten. 

"The  gentleman  said,  'he  had  been  in  town  but  three  days;  and 
one  of  his  reasons  for  coming  hither  was  to  have  the  honour  of  pay- 
ing his  court  to  Jocasta. ' 

"She  said,  'the  w^aters  had  agreed  with  her  but  indifferently.' 

"  'The  waters  were  for  the  sick,'  the  gentleman  said:  'the  young 
and  beautiful  came  but  to  make  them  sparkle.  And  as  the  clergy- 
man read  the  service  on  Sunday,'  he  added,  'your  Ladyship 
reminded  me  of  the  angel  that  visited  the  pool."  A  murmur  of 
approbation  saluted  this  sally.  Manilio,  who  is  a  wit  when  he  is 
not  at  cards,  was  in  such  a  rage  that  he  revoked  when  he  heard  it. 

"Jocasta  was  an  angel  visiting  the  waters;  but  at  which  of  the 
Bethesdas?  She  was  puzzled  more  and  more;  and,  as  her  way 
always  is,  looked  the  more  innocent  and  simple,  the  more  artful  her 
intentions  were. 

"  'We  were  discoursing,'  says  she,  'about  spelling  of  names  and 
words  when  you  came.  Why  should  we  say  goold  and  write  gold, 
and  call  china  chayney,  and  Cavendish  Candish,  and  Cholmon-^ 
deley  Chumley?  If  we  call  Pulteney  Poltney,  why  shouldn't  we 
call  poultry  pultry — and ' 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  411 

"'Such  an  enchantress  as  your  Ladyship,' says  he,  'is  mistress 
of  all  sorts  of  spells. '  But  this  was  Dr.  Swift's  pun,  and  we  all 
knew  it. 

"  'And — and  how  do  you  spell  your  name?'  says  she,  coming  to 
the  point  at  length;  for  this  sprightly  conversation  had  lasted 
much  longer  than  is  here  set  down,  and  been  carried  on  through  at 
least  three  dishes  of  tea. 

"  'Oh,  madam,'  says  he,  */  spell  my  name  ivith  the  ?/.'  And  lay- 
ing down  his  dish,  my  gentleman  made  anotlier  elegant  bow,  and 
was  gone  in  a  moment. 

"Jocasta  hath  had  no  sleep  since  this  mortification,  and  the 
stranger's  disappearance.  If  balked  in  anything  she  is  sure  to  lose 
her  health  and  temper;  and  we,  her  servants,  suffer,  as  usual, 
during  the  angry  fits  of  our  Queen.  Can  you  help  us,  Mr.  Spectator, 
who  know  everything,  to  read  this  riddle  for  her,  and  set  at  rest 
all  our  minds?  We  find  in  her  list,  Mr.  Berty,  Mr.  Smith,  Mr.  Pike, 
Mr.  Tyler— who  may  be  Mr.  Bertie,  Mr.  Smyth,  Mr.  Pyke,  Mr. 
Tiler,  for  what  we  know.  She  hath  turned  away  the  clerk  of  her 
visiting-book,  a  poor  fellow  w^ith  a  great  family  of  children.  Read 
me  this  riddle,  good  Mr.  Shortface,  and  oblige  your  admirer — 
CEdipus." 

"The  Trumpet  Coffee-house,  Whitehall. 

"Mr.  Spectator, — I  am  a  gentleman  but  little  acquainted  with 
the  town,  though  I  have  had  a  university  education,  and  passed 
some  years  serving  my  country  abroad,  where  my  name  is  better 
known  than  in  the  coffee-houses  and  St.  James's. 

''Two  years  since  my  uncle  died,  leaving  me  a  pretty  estate  in 
the  county  of  Kent;  and  being  at  Tunbridge  Wells  last  summer, 
after  my  mourning  was  over,  and  on  the  look-out,  if  truth  must  be 
told,  for  some  young  lady  who  would  share  with  me  the  solitude  of 
my  great  Kentish  house,  and  be  kind  to  my  tenantry  (for  whom  a 
woman  can  do  a  great  deal  more  good  than  the  best-intentioned 
man  can),  I  was  greatly  fascinated  by  a  young  lady  of  London, who 
was  the  toast  of  all  the  company  at  the  Wells.     Every  one  knows 


412  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Saccharissa's  beauty;  and  I  think,  Mr.   Spectator,    no  one  better 
than  herself. 

"My  table-book  informs  me  that  I  danced  no  less  than  seven- 
and-twenty  sets  with  her  at  the  Assembly^  I  treated  her  to  the 
iiddles  twice-  I  was  admitted  on  several  days  to  her  lodging,  and 
received  bj^  her  with  a  great  deal  of  distinction,  and,  for  a  time, 
v.-as  entirely  her  slave.  It  was  only  wlien  I  found,  from  common 
talk  of  the  company  at  the  Wells,  and  from  narrowly  watching  one, 
^vho  I  once  thought  of  asking  the  most  sacred  question  a  man  can 
put  to  a  woman,  that  I  became  aware  how  unfit  she  was  to  be  a 
country  gentleman's  wife ;  and  that  this  fair  creature  was  but  a 
heartless  worldly  jilt,  playing  with  affections  that  she  never  meant 
to  return,  and,  indeed,  incapable  of  returning  them.  *Tis  admira- 
tion such  women  want,  not  love  that  touches  them;  and  I  can  con- 
ceive, in  her  old  age,  no  more  wretched  creature  than  this  lady  will 
be,  when  her  beauty  hath  deserted  her,  when  her  admirers  have 
left  her,  and  she  hath  neither  friendship  nor  religion  to  console  her. 

'  Business  calling  me  to  London,  I  went  to  St.  James's  Church 
last  Sunday,  and  there  opposite  me  sat  my  beauty  of  the  Wells. 
Her  behaviour  during  the  whole  service  was  so  pert,  languishing, 
and  absurd;  she  flirted  her  fan,  and  ogled  and  eyed  me  in  a  manner 
so  indecent,  that  I  was  obliged  to  shut  my  eyes,  so  as  actually  not 
to  see  her,  and  whenever  I  opened  them  beheld  hers  (and  very- 
bright  they  are)  still  staring  at  me.  I  fell  in  with  her  afterwards 
at  Court,  and  at  the  play-house;  and  here  nothing  would  satisfy 
her  but  she  must  elbow  through  the  crowd  and  speak  to  me,  and 
invite  me  to  the  assembly,  which  she  holds  at  her  house,  not  very 
far  from  Ch-r-ng  Cr-ss. 

"Having  made  her  a  promise  to  attend,  of  course  I  kept  my 
promise;  and  found  the  young  widow  in  the  midst  of  a  half-dozen 
of  card-tables,  and  a  crowd  of  wits  and  admirers.  I  made  the  best 
bow  I  could,  and  advanced  towards  her ;  and  saw  by  a  peculiar 
puzzled  look  in  her  face,  though  she  tried  to  hide  her  perplexity, 
that  she  had  forgotten  even  my  name. 

"Her  talk,  artful  as  it  was,  convinced  me  that  I  had  guessed 


THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  418 

aright.  She  turned  the  conversation  most  ridiculously  upon  the 
spelling  of  names  and  words;  and  I  replied  with  as  ridiculous 
fulsome  compliments  as  I  could  pay  her:  indeed,  one  in  which  I 
compared  her  to  an  angel  visiting  the  sick  wells,  went  a  little  too 
far;  nor  should  I  have  employed  it,  but  that  the  allusion  came 
from  the  Second  Lesson  last  Sunday,  which  we  both  had  heard, 
and  I  was  pressed  to  answer  her. 

"Then  she  came  to  the  question,  which  I  knew  was  awaiting 
me,  and  asked  how  I  spelt  my  name?  'Madame,'  says  I,  turning  on 
my  heel,  'I  spell  it  with  a  ?/.'  And  so  I  left  her,  wondering  at  the 
light-heartedness  of  the  town-people,  who  forget  and  make  friends 
so  easily,  and  resolved  to  look  elsewhere  for  a  partner  for  your  con- 
stant reader.  Cymon  Wyldoats." 

"You  know  my  real  name,  Mr.  Spectator,  in  which  there  is  no 
such  letter  as  hiipsilon.  But  if  the  lady,  whom  I  have  called 
Saccharissa,  wonders  that  I  appear  no  more  at  the  tea-tables,  she  is 
hereby  respectfully  informed  the  reason  2/" 

The  above  is  a  parable,  whereof  the  writer  will  now  expound  the 
meaning.  Jocasta  was  no  other  than  Miss  Esmond,  Maid  of 
Honour  to  her  Majesty.  She  had  told  Mr.  Esmond  this  little  story 
of  having  met  a  gentleman  somewhere,  and  forgetting  his  name, 
when  the  gentleman,  with  no  such  malicious  intentions  as  those  of 
"Cymon"  in  the  above  fable,  made  the  answer  simply  as  above; 
and  we  all  laughed  to  think  how  little  Mistress  Jocasta-Beatrix  had 
profited  by  her  artifice  and  precautions. 

As  for  Cymon  he  was  intended  to  represent  yours  and  her  very 
humble  servant,  the  writer  of  the  apologue  and  of  this  story,  whicli 
we  had  printed  on  a  Spectator  paper  at  Mr.  Steele's  office,  exactly 
as  those  famous  journals  were  printed,  and  which  was  laid  on  the 
table  at  breakfast  in  place  of  the  real  newspaper.  Mistress  Jocasta. 
who  had  plenty  of  wit,  could  not  live  without  her  Spectator  to  her 
tea;  and  this  sham  Spectator  was  intended  to  convey  to  the  young 
woman  that  she  herself  was  a  flirt,  and  that  Cymon  was  a  gentle- 


414  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

man  of  honour  and  resolution,  seeing  all  her  faults,  and  determined 
to  break  the  chains  once  and  for  ever. 

For  though  enough  Jiath  been  said  about  this  love  business 
already — enough,  at  least,  to  prove  to  the  writer's  heirs  what  a 
silh'  fond  fool  their  old  grandfather  was,  who  would  like  them  to 
consider  him  as  a  very  wise  old  gentleman ;  yet  not  near  all  has 
been  told  concerning  this  matter,  which,  if  it  were  allowed  to  take 
in  Esmond's  journal  the  space  it  occupied  in  his  time,  would  weary 
his  kinsmen  and  women  of  a  hundred  years'  time  beyond  all 
endurance;  and  form  such  a  diary  of  folly  and  drivelling,  raptures 
and  rage,  as  no  man  of  ordinary  vanity  would  like  to  leave  behind 
him. 

The  truth  is,  that,  whether  she  laughed  at  him  or  encouraged 
him;  wdiether  she  smiled  or  was  cold,  and  turned  her  smiles  on 
another;  worldly  and  ambitious  as  he  knew  her  to  be;  hard  and 
careless,  as  she  seemed  to  grow  wnth  her  Court  life,  and  a  hundred 
admirers  that  came  to  her  and  left  her;  Esmond,  do  what  he  would, 
never  could  get  Beatrix  out  of  his  mind ;  thought  of  her  constantly 
at  home  or  away.  If  he  read  his  name  in  a  Gazette,  or  escaped  the 
shot  of  a  cannon-ball  or  a  greater  danger  in  the  campaign,  as  has 
happened  to  him  more  than  once,  the  instant  thought  after  the 
honour  achieved  or  the  danger  avoided,  was,  "What  will  she  say  of 
it?"  "Will  this  distinction  or  the  idea  of  this  peril  elate  her  or 
touch  her,  so  as  to  be  better  inclined  towards  me?"  He  could  no 
more  help  this  passionate  fidelity'  of  temper  than  lie  could  help  the 
eyes  he  saw  with — one  or  the  other  seemed  a  part  of  his  nature ; 
and  knowing  every  one  of  her  faults  as  well  as  the  keenest  of  her 
detractors,  and  the  folly  of  an  attachment  to  such  a  woman,  of 
which  the  fruition  could  never  bring  him  happiness  for  above  a 
week,  there  was  yet  a  charm  about  this  Circe  from  which  the  poor 
deluded  gentleman  could  not  free  himself ;  and  for  a  much  longer 
period  than  Ulysses  (another  middle-aged  officer,  who  had  travelled 
much,  and  been  in  the  foreign  wars),  Esmond  felt  himself  enthralled 
and  besotted  by  the  wiles  of  this  enchantress.  Quit  her  I  He  could 
no  more  quit  her,  as  the  Cymon  of  this  story  was  made  to  quit  his 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  415 

false  one,  than  he  could  lose  his  consciousness  of  yesterday.  She 
had  but  to  raise  her  linger,  and  he  Avould  come  back  from  ever  so 
far ;  she  had  but  to  say  I  have  discarded  such  and  such  an  adorer, 
and  the  poor  infatuated  wretch  would  be  sure  to  come  and  roder 
about  her  mother's  house,  willing  to  be  put  on  the  ranks  of  suitors, 
though  he  knew  he  inight  be  cast  off  the  next  week  If  he  were 
like  Ulysses  in  his  folly,  at  least  she  was  in  so  far  like  Penelope 
that  she  had  a  crowd  of  suitors,  and  undid  day  after  day  and  niglit 
after  night  the  handiwork  of  fascination  and  the  web  of  coquetry 
with  which  she  was  wont  to  allure  and  entertain  them. 

Part  of  her  coquetry  may  have  come  from  her  position  about 
the  Court,  where  the  beautiful  Maid  of  Honour  was  the  light  about 
which  a  thousand  beaux  came  and  fluttered ;  where  she  was  sure 
to  have  a  ring  of  admirers  round  her,  crowding  to  listen  to  her 
repartees  as  much  as  to  admire  her  beauty;  and  where  she  spoke 
and  listened  to  much  free  talk,  such  as  one  never  would  have 
thought  the  lips  or  ears  of  Rachel  Castlevvood's  daughter  would 
have  uttered  or  heard.  When  in  waiting  at  Windsor  or  Hampton, 
the  Court  ladies  and  gentlemen  would  be  making  riding  parties 
together;  Mrs.  Beatrix  in  a  horseman's  coat  and  hat,  the  foremost 
after  the  staghounds  and  over  the  park  fences,  a  crowd  of  young 
fellows  at  her  heels.  If  the  English  country  ladies  at  this  time 
were  the  most  i^ure  and  modest  of  any  ladies  in  the  world — the 
English  town  and  Court  ladies  permitted  themselves  words  and 
behaviour  that  were  neither  modest  nor  pure;  and  claimed,  some  of 
them,  a  freedom  which  those  who  love  that  sex  most  would  never 
wish  to  grant  them.  The  gentlemen  of  my  family  that  follow  after 
me  (for  I  don't  encourage  the  ladies  to  pursue  any  such  studies)  may 
read  in  the  works  of  Mr.  Congreve,  and  Dr.  Ssvift  and  others,  what 
was  the  conversation  and  what  the  habits  of  our  time. 

The  most  beautiful  woman  in  England  in  1712,  when  Esmond 
returned  to  this  country,  a  lady  of  liigh  birth,  and  thougli  of  no 
fortune  to  be  sure,  with  a  thousand  fascinations  of  wit  and  man- 
ners, Beatrix  Esmond  was  now  six-and -twenty  years  old,  and 
Beatrix  Esmond  still.     Of  her  hundred  adorers  she  had  not  chosen 


416  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

/ 
/  one  for  a  husband ;  and  those  who  had  asked  had  been  jilted  by 

/  her ;  and  more  still  had  left  her.  A  succession  of  near  ten  years' 
crops  of  beauties  had  come  up  since  her  time,  and  had  been  reaped 
by  proper  husbandm.en,  if  we  may  make  an  agricultural  simile,  and 
had  been  housed  comfortably  long  ago.  .  Her  own  contemporaries 
were  sober  mothers  by  this  time ;  girls  with  not  a  tithe  of  her 
charms,  or  her  wit,  having  made  good  matches,  and  now  claiming 
precedence  over  the  spinster  who  but  lately  had  derided  and  out- 
shone them.  The  young  beauties  were  beginning  to  look  down  on 
Beatrix  as  an  old  maid,  and  sneer,  and  call  her  one  of  Charles  the 
Second's  ladies,  and  ask  whether  her  portrait  was  not  in  the  Hamp- 
ton Court  Gallery?  But  still  she  reigned,  at  least  in  one  man's 
opinion,  superior  over  all  the  little  misses  that  were  the  toasts  of 
the  young  lads;  and  in  Esmond's  eyes  was  ever  perfectly  lovely 
and  young. 

Who  knows  how  many  were  nearly  made  happy  by  possessing 
her,  or,  rather,  how  many  were  fortunate  in  escaping  this  siren? 
'Tis  a  marvel  to  think  that  her  mother  was  the  purest  and  simplest 
woman  in  the  whole  world,  and  that  this  girl  should  have  been 
born  from  her.  I  am  inclined  to  fancy,  my  mistress,  who  never 
said  a  harsh  word  to  her  children  (and  but  twice  or  thrice  only  to 
one  person),  must  have  been  too  fond  and  jDressing  with  the  mater- 
nal authority;  for  her  son  and  her  daughter  both  revolted  early; 
nor  after  their  first  flight  from  the  nest  could  they  ever  be  brought 
back  quite  to  the  fond  mother's  bosom.  Lady  Castlewood,  and 
perhaps  it  was  as  well,  knew  little  of  her  daughter's  life  and  real 
thoughts.  How  was  she  to  apprehend  what  passes  in  Queen's  ante- 
chambers and  at  Court  tables?  Mrs.  Beatrix  asserted  her  own 
authority  so  resolutely  that  her  mother  quickly  gave  in.  The  Maid 
of  Honour  had  her  own  equipage ;  went  from  home  and  came  back 
at  her  own  will:  her  mother  was  alike  powerless  to  resist  her  or  to 
lead  her,  or  to  command  or  to  persuade  her. 

She  had  been  engaged  once,  twice,  thrice,  to  be  married, 
Esmond  believed.  When  he  quitted  home,  it  hath  been  said,  she 
was  promised  to  my  Lord  Ashburnham,  and  now,  on  his  return, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  417 

behold  his  Lordship  Avas  just  married  to  Lady  Mary  Butler,  the 
Duke  of  Ormonde's  daughter,  and  his  fine  houses,  and  twelve  thou- 
sand a  3'ear  of  fortune,  for  which  Miss  Beatrix  liad  rather  coveted 
him,  were  out  of  her  power.  To  her  Esmond  could  say  nothing  in 
regard  to  the  breaking  of  this  match;  and,  asking  his  mistress 
about  it,  all  Lady  Castlewood  answered  was:  "Do  not  speak  to  me 
about  it,  Harry.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  or  why  they  parted,  and  I 
fear  to  inquire.  I  have  told  you  before,  that  with  all  her  kindness, 
and  wit,  and  generosity,  and  that  sort  of  splendour  of  nature  she 
has,  I  can  say  but  little  good  of  poor  Beatrix,  and  look  with  dread 
at  the  marriage  she  will  form.     Her    mind  is  fixed  on  ambition 

;  only,  and  making  a  great  figure ;  and,  this  achieved,  she  will  tire  of 
it  as  she  does  of  everything.  Heaven  help  her  husband,  whoever 
he  shall  be!  My  Lord  Ashburnham  was  a  most  excellent  young 
man,  gentle  and  yet  manly,  of  very  good  parts,  so  they  told  me, 

land  as  my  little  conversation  would  enable  me  to  judge:  and  a 
kind  temper — kind  and  enduring  I'm  sure  he  must  have  been,  from 

i  all  that  he  had  to  endure.  But  he  quitted  her  at  last,  from  some 
crowning  piece  of  caprice  or  tyranny  of  hers ;  and  now  he  has  mar- 
ried a  young  woman  that  will  make  him  a  thousand  times  happier 
than  my  poor  girl  ever  could." 

The  rupture,  whatever  its  cause  was  (I  heard  the  scandal,  but 
indeed  shall  not  take  pains  to  repeat  at  length  in  this  diary  the 
trumpery  coffee-house  story),  caused  a  good  deal  of  low  talk;  and 
Mr.  Esmond  was  present  at  my  Lord's  appearance  at  the  Birthday 
with  his  bride,  over  whom  the  revenge  that  Beatrix  took  was  to 
look  so  imperial  and  lovely  that  the  modest  downcast  3'oung  lady 
could  not  appear  beside  her,  and  Lord  Ashburnham,  who  had  his 
reasons  for  wishing  to  avoid  her,  slunk  away  quite  shamefaced,  and 
very  early.     This  time  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,   wliom 

I  Esmond  had  seen  about  her  before,  was  constant  at  Miss  Beatrix's 
side:  he  was  one  of  the  most  splendid  gentlemen  of  Europe,  accom- 
plished by  books,  by  travel,  by  long  command  of  the  best  company, 

.  distinguished  as  a  statesman,  having  been  ambassador  in  King  Wil- 
liam's time,  and  a  noble  speaker  in  the  Scots'  Parliament,  where  he 

I 


il8  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

had  led  the  party  that  was  against  the  Union,  and  though  now  five 
or  six-and-forty  years  of  age,  a  gentleman  so  high  in  stature, 
accomplished  in  wit,  and  favoured  in  person,  that  he  might  pretend 
to  the  hand  of  any  Princess  in  Europe. 

"Should  you  like  the  Duke  for  a  cousin?"  says  Mr.  Secretary 
St.  John,  whispering  to  Colonel  Esmond  in  French;  "it  appears 
that  the  widower  consoles  himself." 

But  to  return  to  our  little  Spectator  paper  and  the  conversation 
which  grew  out  of  it.  Miss  Beatrix  at  first  was  quite  hit  (as  the 
phrase  of  that  day  was)  and  did  not  "smoke"  the  authorship  of  the 
story ;  indeed  Esmond  had  tried  to  imitate  as  well  as  he  could  Mr. 
Steele's  manner  (as  for  the  other  author  of  the  Spectator,  his  prose 
style  I  think  is  altogether  inimitable) ;  and  Dick,  who  was  the 
idlest  and  best-natured  of  men,  w^ould  have  let  the  piece  pass  into 
his  journal  and  go  to  posterity  as  one  of  his  own  lucubrations,  but 
that  Esmond  did  not  care  to  have  a  lady's  name  whom  he  loved 
sent  forth  to  the  world  in  a  light  so  unfavourable.  Beatrix  pished 
and  psha'd  over  the  paper;  Colonel  Esmond  watching  with  no  little 
interest  her  countenance  as  she  read  it. 

"How  stupid  your  friend  Mr.  Steele  becomes!"  cries  Miss 
Beatrix.  "Epsom  and  Tunbridge  I  Will  he  never  have  done  with 
Epsom  and  Tunbridge,  and  with  beaux  at  church,  and  Jocastas  and 
Lindamiras?  Why  does  he  not  call  women  Nelly  and  Betty,  as 
tiieir  godfathers  and  godmothers  did  for  them  in  their  baptism?" 

"Beatrix,  Beatrix!"  says  her  mother,  "speak  grt-vely  of  grave 
things." 

"Mamma  thinks  the  Church  Catechism  came  from  heaven,  I 
believe,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a,  laugh,  "and  was  brought  down  by 
a  bishop  from  a  mountain.  Oh,  how  I  used  to  break  my  heart  over 
it!  Besides,  I  had  a  Popish  godmother,  mamma;  why  did  you  give 
me  one?" 

"I  gave  you  the  Queen's  name,"  says  her  mother,  blushing. 
"And  a  very  pretty  name  it  is,"  said  somebody  else. 

Beatrix  went  on  reading:  "Spell  my  name  with  a  jj — why,  you 
wretch,"  says  she,  turning  round  to  Colonel  Esmond,  "you  have 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  419 

been  telling  my  story  to  Mr.  Steele — or  stop — you  have  written  the 
paper  yourself  to  turn  me  into  ridicule.     For  shame,  sir!" 

Poor  Mr.  Esmond  felt  rather  frightened,  and  told  a  truth,  which 
was  nevertheless  an  entire  falsehood.  "Upon  my  honoui',"  says 
he.  "I  have  not  even  read  the  Spectator  of  this  morning."  Nor  had 
he,  for  that  was  not  the  Spectator,  but  a  sham  newspaper  put  in  its 
place. 

She  went  on  reading:  her  face  rather  flushed  as  she  read.  "No," 
she  says,  "I  think  you  couldn't  have  written  it.  I  think  it  must 
have  been  Mr.  Steele  when  he  was  drunk — and  afraid  of  his  horrid 
vulgar  wife.  Whenever  I  see  an  enormous  compliment  to  a 
woman,  and  some  outrageous  panegyric  about  female  virtue,  I 
always  feel  sure  that  the  Captain  and  his  better  half  have  fallen 
out  over-night,  and  that  he  has  been  brought  home  tipsy,  or  has 
been  found  out  in ' ' 

"Beatrix!"  cries  the  Lady  Castlewood. 

"Well,  mamma!  Do  not  cry  out  before  you  are  hurt.  I  am  not 
going  to  say  anything  wrong.  I  won't  give  you  more  annoyance 
than  I  can  help,  you  prettj^  kind  mamma.  Yes,  and  your  little 
Trix  is  a  naughty  little  Trix,  and  she  leaves  undone  those  things 
wdiich  she  ought  to  have  done,  and  does  those  things  which  she 

ought  not  to  have  done,  and  there's well  now — I  won't  go  on. 

Yes,  I  will,  unless  you  kiss  me."  And  with  this  the  young  lady 
lays  aside  her  paper,  and  runs  up  to  her  mother  and  performs  a 
variety  of  embraces  with  her  Ladyship,  saying  as  plain  as  eyes 
could  speak  to  Mr.  Esmond,  "There,  sir:  would  not  you  like  to  play 
the  very  same  pleasant  game?" 

'Indeed,  madam,  I  would,"  says  he. 

"Would  wdiat?"  asked  Miss  Beatrix. 

"What  you  meant  when  you  looked  at  me  in  that  provoking 
way,"  answers  Esmond. 

"What  a  confessor!"  cries  Beatrix,  with  a  laugh. 

"What  is  it  Henry  would  like,  my  dear?"  asks  her  mother,  the 
kind  soul,  who  was  always  thinking  what  we  would  like,  and  how 
she  could  please  us. 


420  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

The  girl  runs  up  to  her.  "O  you  silly,  kind  mamma,"  she  says,, 
kissing  her  again,  "that's  what  Harry  would  like;'*  and  she  broke 
out  into  a  great  joyful  laugh;  and  Lady  Castlewood  blushed  as 
bashful  as  a  maid  of  sixteen. 

^'>Look  at  her,  Harry,"  whispers  Beatrix,  running  up,  and  speak- 
ing in  her  sweet  low  tones.  "Doesn't  the  blusli  become  her?  Isn't 
she  pretty?  She  looks  younger  than  I  am,  and  I  am  sure  she  is  a 
hundred  thousand  million  times  better." 

Esmond's  kind  mistress  left  the  room,  carrying  her  blushes  away 
with  her. 

"If  we  girls  at  Court  could  grow  such  roses  as  that,"  continues 
Beatrix,  with  her  laugh,  "what  wouldn't  we  do  to  preserve  'em? 
We'd  clip  their  stalks  and  put  'em  in  salt  and  water.  But  those 
flowers  don't  bloom  at  Hampton  Court  and  Windsor,  Henry.''  She 
paused  for  a  minute,  and  the  smile  fading  away  from  her  April 
face,  gave  place  to  a  menacing  shower  of  tears.  "Oh,  how  good 
she  is,  Harry!"  Beatrix  went  on  to  say.  "Oh,  what  a  saint  she  is! 
Her  goodness  frightens  me.  I'm  not  fit  to  live  with  her.  I  should 
be  better,  I  think,  if  she  were  not  so  perfect.  She  has  had  a  great 
sorrow  in  her  life,  and  a  great  secret;  and  repented  of  it.  It  could 
not  have  been  my  father's  death.  She  talks  freely  about  that ;  nor 
could  she  have  loved  him  very  much — though  who  knows  what  we 
women  do  love,  and  why," 

"What,  and  why,  indeed!"  says  Mr.  Esmond.    *' 

"No  one  knows,"  Beatrix  went  on,  without  noticing  this  inter- 
ruption except  by  a  look,  "what  my  mother's  life  is.  She  hath 
been  at  early  prayer  this  morning:  she  passes  hours  in  her  closet; 
if  you  were  to  follow  her  thither,  you  would  find  her  at  prayers 
now.  She  tends  the  poor  of  the  place — the  horrid  dirty  poor!  She 
sits  through  the  curate's  sermons — oh,  those  dreary  sermons !  And 
you  see,  on  a  beau  dire;  but  good  as  they  are,  people  like  her  are 
not  fit  to  commune  with  us  of  the  world.  There  is  always,  as  it 
were,  a  third  person  present,  even  when  I  and  my  mother  are 
alone.  She  can't  be  frank  with  me  quite;  who  is  always  thinking 
of  the  next  world,  and  of  her  guardian  angel,  perhaps  that's  in 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  431 

company.  O  Harry,  I'm  jealous  of  that  guardian  angel'"  here 
broke  out  Mistress  Beatrix.  "It's  horrid,  I  know;  but  my  mother's 
life  is  all  for  heaven,  and  mine — all  for  earth.  We  can  never  be 
friends  quite;  and  then  she  cares  more  for  Frank's  little  finger  than 
she  does  for  me — I  know  she  does:  and  she  loves  you,  sir,  a  great 
deal  too  much ;  and  I  hate  you  for  it.  I  would  have  had  her  all  to 
myself;  but  she  wouldn't.  In  my  childhood,  it  was  my  father  she 
loved — (oh,  how  could  she?  I  remember  him  kind  and  handsome, 
but  so  stupid,  and  not  being  able  to  speak  after  drinking  wine). 
And  then  it  was  Frank ;  and  now,  it  is  heaven  and  the  clergyman. 
How  I  would  have  loved  her !  From  a  child  I  used  to  be  in  a  rage 
that  she  loved  anybody  but  me;  but  she  loved  you  all  better— all,  I 
know  she  did.  And  now,  she  talks  of  the  blessed  consolation  of 
religion.  Dear  soul !  she  thinks  she  is  happier  for  believing,  as  she 
must,  that  we  are  all  of  us  wicked  and  miserable  sinners;  and  this 
world  is  only  a  pied-d-terre  for  the  good,  where  they  stay  for  a 
night,  as  we  do,  coming  from  Walcote,  at  that  great,  dreary, 
uncomfortable  Hounslow  Inn,  in  those  horrid  beds — oh,  do  you 
remember  those  horrid  beds? — and  the  chariot  comes  and  fetches 
them  to  heaven  the  next  morning." 

*''Hush,  Beatrix!"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"Hush,  indeed.  You  are  a  hypocrj^te,  too,  Henry,  with  your 
grave  airs  and  your  glum  face.  We  are  all  hypocrites.  Oh  dear 
me!  We  are  all  alone,  alone,  alone,"  says  poor  Beatrix,  her  fair 
breast  heaving  with  a  sigh. 

"It  was  I  that  writ  every  line  of  that  paper,  my  dear,"  says  Mr. 
Esmond.  "You  are  not  so  worldly  as  you  think  yourself,  Beatrix, 
and  better  than  we  believe  j'ou.  The  good  we  have  in  us  we  doubt 
of;  and  the  happiness  that's  to  our  hand  we  throw  away.  You 
bend  your  ambition  on  a  great  marriage  and  establishment — and 
wh}'?  You'll  tire  of  them  when  you  win  them;  and  be  no  happier 
with  a  coronet  on  your  coach '" 

"Than  riding  pillion  with  Lubin  to  market,"  says  Beatrix. 
'Thank  you,  Lubin!" 

"I'm  a  dismal  shepherd,  to  be  sure,"  answers  Esmond,  with  a 


422  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

blush;  "and  require  a  nymph  that  can  tuck  my  bed-clothes  up,  and 
make  me  water-gruel.  Well,  Tom  Lockwood  can  do  that.  He  took 
me  out  of  the  fire  upon  his  shoulders,  and  nursed  me  through  my 
illness  as  love  will  scarce  ever  do.  Only  good  wages,  and  a  hope  of 
my  clothes,  and  the  contents  of  my  portmanteau.  How  long  was  it 
that  Jacob  served  an  apprenticeship  for  Rachel?"' 

"For  mamma?''  says  Beatrix.  "Jt  is  mamma  your  honour  wants, 
9.nd  that  I  should  have  the  happiness  of  calling  you  papa?" 

Esmond  blushed  again.  "I  spoke  of  a  Rachel  that  a  shepherd 
courted  five  thousand  years  ago ;  when  shepherds  were  longer  lived 
than  now.  And  my  meaning  was,  that  since  I  saw  you  first  after 
our  separation — a  child  you  were  then  .  .  .*' 

"And  I  put  on  my  best  stockings  to  captivate  you,  I  remember, 
sir  .   .  ."' 

"You  have  had  my  heart  ever  since  then,  such  as  it  was;  and 
such  as  you  were,  I  cared  for  no  other  woman.  What  little  repu- 
tation I  have  won,  it  was  that  you  might  be  pleased  with  it :  and 
indeed,  it  is  not  much ;  and  I  think  a  hundred  fools  in  the  army 
have  got  and  deserved  quite  as  much.  Was  there  something  in  the 
air  of  that  dismal  old  Castlewood  that  made  us  all  gloomy,  and 
dissatisfied,  and  lonely  under  its  ruined  old  roof?  We  were  all  so, 
even  when  together  and  united,  as  it  seemed,  following  our  sep- 
arate schemes,  each  as  we  sat  round  the  table." 

"Dear,  dreary  old  place!"  cries  Beatrix.  "Mamma  hath  never 
had  the  heart  to  go  back  thither  since  we  left  it,  when — never  mind 
how  many  years  ago."  And  she  flung  back  her  curls,  and  looked 
over  her  fair  shoulder  at  the  mirror  superbly,  as  if  she  said,  "Time, 
I  defy  you." 

"Yes,"  says  Esmond,  who  had  the  art,  as  she  owned,  of  divining 
many  of  her  thoughts.  "You  can  afford  to  look  in  the  glass  still: 
and  only  be  pleased  by  the  truth  it  tells  joii.  As  for  me,  do  yoii 
know  what  my  scheme  is?  I  think  of  asking  Frank  to  give  me  the 
Yirginian  estate  King  Charles  gave  our  grandfather."  (She  gave 
a  superb  curtsey,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Our  grandfather,  indeed! 
Thank  you,  Mr,  Bastard.")     "Yes,  I  know  you  are  thinking  of  my 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  433 

bar  sinister,  and  so  am  I.  A  man  cannot  get  over  it  in  this  country; 
unless,  indeed,  he  wears  it  across  a  king's  arms,  when  'tis  a  highly 
honourable  coat ;  and  I  am  thinking  of  retiring  into  the  planta- 
tions, and  building  myself  a  wigwam  in  the  woods,  and  perhaps,  if 
I  want  company,  suiting  myself  with  a  squaw.  We  will  send  your 
Ladyship  furs  over  for  the  winter;  and,  when  you  are  old,  we  will 
provide  you  with  tobacco.  I  am  not  quite  clever  enough,  or  not 
rogue  enough — I  know  not  which — for  tlie  Old  World.  I  may  make 
a  place  for  myself  in  the  New,  which  is  not  so  full ;  and  found  a 
family  there.  When  you  are  a  mother  yourself,  and  a  great  lady, 
perhaps  I  shall  send  you  over  from  the  plantation  some  day  a  little 
barbarian  that  is  lialf  Esmond  half  Mohock,  and  you  will  be  kind  to 
him  for  his  father's  sake,  who  was,  after  all,  3'our  kinsman;  and 
whom  you  loved  a  little." 

"What  folly  you  are  talking,  Harry !"'  says  Miss  Beatrix,  looking 
with  her  great  eyes. 

" 'Tis  sober  earnest,"  says  Esmond.  And,  indeed,  the  scheme 
had  been  dwelling  a  good  deal  in  his  mind  for  some  time  past,  and 
especially  since  his  return  home,  when  he  found  how  hopeless,  and 
even  degrading  to  himself,  his  passion  was.  "No,"  says  he,  then: 
*'I  have  tried  half-a-dozen  times  now.  I  can  l^ear  being  away  from 
you  well  enough;  but  being  with  you  is  intolerable"  (another  low 
curtsey  on  Mistress  Beatrix's  part),  "and  I  will  go.  I  have  enough 
to  buy  axes  and  guns  for  my  men,  and  beads  and  blankets  for  the 
savages;  and  I'll  go  and  live  amongst  them." 

"2Ion  ami,'"  she  says,  quite  kindly,  and  taking  Esmond's  hand, 
with  an  air  of  great  compassion,  "you  can't  tliink  that  in  our  posi- 
tion anything  more  than  our  present  friendsliip  is  possible.  You 
are  oui-  elder  brother — as  such  we  view  you,  pitying  your  misfor- 
tune, not  rebuking  you  with  it.  Vv^hy,  you  are  old  enough  and 
grave  enough  to  be  our  father.  I  always  thought  you  a  hundred 
years  old,  Harry,  with  your  solemn  face  and  grave  air.  I  feel  as  a 
sister  to  you,  and  can  no  more.  Isn't  that  enough,  sir?"  And  she 
put  her  face  quite  close  to  his — who  knows  with  what  intention? 

"It's  too  much,"  says  Esmond,  turning  away.     "I  can't  bear 


424  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

this  life,  and  shall  leave  it.  I  shall  stay,  I  think,  to  see  j-ou  mai>- 
ried,  and  then  freight  a  ship,  and  call  it  the  Beatrix,  and  bid  I 
you  all " 

Here  the  servant,  flinging  the  door  open,  announced  his  Grace: 
the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  and  Esmond  started  back  with  something  i 
like  an  imprecation  on  his  lips,  as  the  nobleman  entered,  looking: 
splendid  in  his  star  and  green  riband.  He  gave  Mr.  Esmond  just: 
that  gracious  bow  which  he  would  have  given  to  a  lacquey  who 
fetched  him  a  chair  or  took  his  hat,  and  seated  himself  by  Miss 
Beatrix,  as  the  poor  Colonel  went  out  of  the  room  with  a  hangdog; 
look. 

Esmond's  mistress  was  in  the  lower  room  as  he  passed  down- 
stairs. She  often  met  him  as  he  was  coming  away  from  Beatrix ; 
and  she  beckoned  him  into  the  apartment. 

"Has  she  told  you,  Harry?"  Lady  Castle  wood  said. 

"She  has  been  very  frank — very,"  says  Esmond. 

"But — but  about  what  is  going  to  happen?" 

"What  is  going  to  happen?"  says  he,  his  heart  beating. 

"His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  has  proposed  to  her,"  says  my 
Lady.  "He  made  his  offer  yesterday.  They  will  marry  as  soon  as 
his  mourning  is  over ;  and  you  have  heard  his  Grace  is  appointed  i 
Ambassador  to  Paris;  and  the  Ambassadress  goes  with  him." 


CHAPTER   IV 


BEATRIX  S   NEW   SUITOR 


The  gentleman  whom  Beatrix  had  selected  was,  to  be  sure, 
twenty  years  older  than  the  Colonel,  with  whom  she  quarrelled  for 
being  too  old ;  but  this  one  was  but  a  nameless  adventurer,  and  the 
other  the  greatest  Duke  in  Scotland,  with  pretensions  even  to  a  still 
higher  title.  My  Lord  Duke  of  Hamilton  had,  indeed,  every  merit 
belonging  to  a  gentleman,  and  he  had  had  the  time  to  mature  his 
accomplishments  fully,  being  upwards  of  fifty  years  old  when 
Madam  Beatrix  selected  him  for  a  bridegroom.  Duke  Hamilton, 
then  Earl  of  Arran,  had  been  educated  at  the  famous  Scottish  Uni- 
versity of  Glasgow,  and,  coming  to  London,  became  a  great  favour- 
ite of  Charles  the  Second,  who  made  him  a  lord  of  his  bedchamber, 
and  afterwards  appointed  him  ambassador  to  the  French  King, 
under  whom  the  Earl  served  two  campaigns  as  his  Majesty's  aide- 
de-camp;  and  he  was  absent  on  this  service  when  King  Charles 
died. 

King  James  continued  my  Lord's  promotion — made  him  Master 
of  the  Wardrobe  and  Colonel  of  the  Royal  Regiment  of  Horse ;  and 
his  Lordship  adhered  firmly  to  King  James,  being  of  the  small 
company  that  never  quitted  that  unfortunate  monarch  till  his 
departure  out  of  England;  and  then  it  was,  in  1688  namely,  that  he 
made  the  friendship  with  Colonel  Francis  Esmond,  that  had  always 
been,  more  or  less,  maintained  in  the  two  families. 

The  Earl  professed  a  great  admiration  for  King  William  always, 
but  never  could  give  him  his  allegiance ;  and  was  engaged  in  more 
than  one  of  tlie  plots  in  the  late  great  King's  reign  which  always 
ended  in  the  plotters'  discomfiture,  and  generally  in  their  pardon, 
by  the  magnanimity  of  the  King.  Lord  Arran  was  twice  prisoner 
in  the  Tower  during  this  reign,  undauntedly  saying,  when  offered 

425 


426  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

his  release,  upon  parole  not  to  engage  against  King  William,  that 
he  would  not  give  his  word,  because  "he  was  sure  he  could  not  keep 
if;  but,  nevertheless,  he  was  both  times  discharged  without  any- 
trial;  and  the  King  bore  this  noble  enemy  so  little  malice,  that 
when  his  mother,  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton,  of  her  own  right, 
resigned  her  claim  on  her  husband's  death,  the  Earl  was,  by  patent 
signed  at  Loo,  1690,  created  Duke  of  Hamilton,  Marquis  of  Clydes- 
dale, and  Earl  of  Arran,  with  precedency  from  the  original  M'ea- 
tion.  His  Grace  took  the  oaths  and  his  seat  in  the  Sccttish 
parliament  in  1700:  was  famous  there  for  his  patriotism  and 
eloquence,  especially  in  the  debates  about  the  Union  Bill,  which 
Duke  Hamilton  opposed  with  all  his  strength,  though  he  would  not 
go  the  length  of  the  Scottish  gentry,  who  were  for  resisting  it  by 
force  of  arms.  'Twas  said  he  withdrew  his  opposition  all  of  a 
sudden,  and  in  consequence  of  letters  from  the  King  at  St.  Ger- 
mains,  who  entreated  him  on  his  allegiance  not  to  thwart  the  Queen 
his  sister  in  this  measure ;  and  the  Duke,  being  alwaj's  bent  upon 
effecting  the  King's  return  to  his  kingdom  through  a  reconcilia- 
tion between  his  Majesty  and  Queen  Anne,  and  quite  averse  to  his 
landing  with  arms  and  French  troops,  held  aloof,  and  kept  out  of 
Scotland  during  the  time  when  the  Chevalier  de  St.  George's 
descent  from  Dunkirk  was  projected,  passing  his  time  in  England 
in  his  great  estate  in  Staffordshire. 

Wlien  the  Whigs  went  out  of  office  in  1710,  the  Queen  began  to 
show  his  Grace  the  very  greatest  marks  of  her  favour.  He  was 
created  Duke  of  Brandon  and  Baron  of  Dutton  in  England ;  having 
the  Thistle  already  originally  bestowed  on  him  by  King  James  the 
Second,  his  Grace  was  now  promoted  to  the  honour  of  the  Garter — 
a  distinction  so  great  and  illustrious,  that  no  subject  hath  ever 
borne  them  hitherto  together.  When  this  objection  was  made  to 
her  Majesty,  she  was  pleased  to  say,  "Such  a  subject  as  the  Duke  of 
Hamilton  has  a  pre-eminent  claim  to  every  mark  of  distinction 
which  a  crowned  head  can  confer.  I  will  henceforth  wear  bcth 
orders  myself . " 

At  the  Chapter  held  at  Windsor  in  October  1712,  the  Duke  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  427 

other  knights,  including  Lord-Treasurer,  the  new-created  Earl  of 
Oxford  and  Mortimer,  were  installed;  and  a  few  days  afterwards 
his  Grace  was  appointed  Ambassador  -  Extraordinary  to  France, 
and  his  equipages,  plate,  and  liveries  commanded,  of  the  most 
sumptuous  kind,  not  only  for  his  Excellency  the  Ambassador,  but 
for  her  Excellency  the  Ambassadress,  who  was  to  accompany  him. 
Her  arms  were  already  quartered  on  the  coach  panels,  and  her 
brother  was  to  hasten  over  on  the  appointed  day  to  give  her  away. 
His  Lordship  was  a  widower,  having  married,  in  1698,  Elizabeth, 
daughter  of  Digby  Lord  Gerard,  by  which  marriage  great  estates 
came  into  the  Hamilton  family ;  and  out  of  these  estates  came,  in 
part,  that  tragic  quarrel  which  ended  the  Duke's  career. 

From  the  loss  of  a  tooth  to  that  of  a  mistress  there's  no  pang 
that  is  not  bearable.  The  apprehension  is  much  more  cruel  than 
the  certainty ;  and  we  make  up  our  mind  to  the  misfortune  when 
"tis  irremediable,  part  with  the  tormentor,  and  mumble  our  crust 
on  t'other  side  of  the  jaws.  I  think  Colonel  Esmond  was  relieved 
when  a  ducal  coach  and  six  came  and  whisked  his  charmer  away 
out  of  his  reach,  and  placed  her  in  a  higher  sphere.  As  you  have 
seen  the  nymph  in  the  opera-machine  go  up  to  the  clouds  at  the  end 
of  the  piece  where  Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo,  and  all  the  divine  com- 
pany of  Olympians  are  seated,  and  quaver  out  her  last  song  as  a 
goddess:  so  when  this  portentous  elevation  was  accomplished  in 
the  Esmond  family,  I  am  not  sure  that  every  one  of  us  did  not 
treat  the  divine  Beatrix  with  special  honours;  at  least  the  saucy 
little  beauty  carried  her  head  with  a  toss  of  supreme  authority,  and 
assumed  a  touch-me-not  air,  which  all  her  friends  very  good- 
humoured  ly  bowed  to. 

An  old  army  acquaintance  of  Colonel  Esmond's,  honest  Tom 
Trett,  who  had  sold  his  company,  married  a  wife,  and  turned 
merchant  in  the  City,  was  dreadfully  gloomy  for  a  long  time, 
though  living  in  a  fine  house  on  the  river,  and  carrying  on  a  great 
trade  to  all  appe'arance.  At  length  Esmond  saw  his  friend's  name 
in  the  Gazette  as  a  bankrupt ;  and  a  week  after  this  circumstance 


428  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

my  bankrupt  walks  into  Mr.  Esmond's  lodging  with  a  face  per- 
fectly radiant  with  good-humour,  and  as  jolly  and  careless  as  when 
they  had  sailed  from  Southampton  ten  years  before  for  Vigo- 
"This  bankruptcy,"  says  Tom,  "has  been  hanging  over  my  head 
these  three  years ;  the  thought  hath  prevented  my  sleeping,  and  I 
iiave  looked  at  poor  Polly's  head  on  t'other  pillow,  and  then 
towards  my  razor  on  the  table,  and  thought  to  put  an  end  to 
myself,  and  so  give  my  woes  the  slip.  But  now  we  are  bankrupts: 
Tom  Trett  pays  as  many  shillings  in  the  pound  as  he  can ;  his  wife 
has  a  little  cottage  at  Fulham,  and  her  fortune  secured  to  herself. 
I  am  afraid  neither  of  bailiff  nor  of  creditor:  and  for  the  last  six 
nights  have  slept  easy."  So  it  was  that  when  Fortune  shook  her 
wings  and  left  him,  honest  Tom  cuddled  himself  up  in  his  ragged 
virtue,  and  fell  asleep. 

Esmond  did  not  tell  his  friend  hov%'  much  his  story  applied  to 
Esmond  too ;  but  he  laughed  at  it,  and  used  it ;  and  having  fairly 
struck  his  docket  in  this  love  transaction,  determined  to  put  a 
cheerful  face  on  his  bankruptcy.  Perhaps  Beatrix  was  a  little 
offended  at  his  gaiety.  "Is  this  the  way,  sir,  that  you  receive  the 
announcement  of  your  misfortune?"  says  she,  "and  do  you  come 
smiling  before  me  as  if  you  were  glad  to  be  rid  of  me?" 

Esmond  would  not  be  put  off  from  his  good-humour,  but  told 
her  the  story  of  Tom  Trett  and  his  bankruptcy.  "I  have  been 
hankering  after  the  grapes  on  the  wall,"  says  he,  "and  lost  my 
temper  because  they  were  beyond  my  reach:  was  there  any  won- 
der? They're  gone  now,  and  another  has  them — a  taller  man  than 
your  humble  servant  has  won  them. "  And  the  Colonel  made  his 
cousin  a  low  bow. 

"A  taller  man.  Cousin  Esmond!"  says  she.  "A  man  of  spirit 
would  have  scaled  the  wall,  sir,  and  seized  them !  A  man  of 
courage  would  have  fought  for  'em,  not  gaped  for  'em.'" 

"A  Duke  has  but  to  gape  and  they  drop  into  his  mouth,"  says 
Esmond,  wnth  another  low  bow. 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  she,  "a  Duke  is  a  taller  man  than  you.  And 
why  should  I  not  be  grateful  to  one  such  as  his  Grace,  who  gives 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  429 

me  his  heart  and  his  great  name?     It  is  a  great  gift  he  honours  me 
with;  I  know  'tis  a  bargain  between  us;  and  I  accept  it,  and  will 
do  my  utmost  to  perform  my  part  of  it.    'Tis  no  question  of  sighing 
and  philandering  between  a  nobleman  of  his  Grace's  age,  and  a  girl 
who  hath  little  of  that  softness  in  her  nature.     Why  should  I  not 
own  that  I  am  ambitious,  Harry  Esmond;  and  if  it  be  no  sin  in  a 
man  to  covet  honour,  why  should  a  woman  too  not  desire  it?   Shall 
I  be  frank  with  you,   Harry,   and  say  that  if  you  had  not  been 
down  on  your  knees,  and  so  humble,  you  might  have  fared  better 
with  me?    A  woman  of  my  spirit,  cousin,  is  to  be  won  by  gallantry, 
and  not  by  sighs  and  rueful  faces.     All  the  time  you  are  wor- 
shipping and  singing  hymns  to  me,   I  know  very  well  I  am  no 
goddess,  and  grow  weary  of  the  incense.     So  would  you  have  been 
weary  of  the  goddess  too — when  she  was  called  Mrs.  Esmond,  and 
got  out  of  humour  because  she  had  not  pin-money  enough,  and  was 
forced  to  go  about  in  an  old  gown.      Eh!  cousin,  a  goddess  in  a 
mob-cap,  that  has  to  make  her  husbands's  gruel,  ceases  to  be  divine 
— I  am  sure  of  it.    I  should  have  been  sulky  and  scolded ;  and  of  all 
the  proud  wretches  in  the  world  Mr.  Esmond  is  the  proudest,  let 
me  tell  him  that.     You  never  fall  into  a  passion;  but  you  never 
forgive,  I  think.     Had  you  been  a  great  man,  you  might  haA^e  been 
good-humoured ;  but  being  nobody,  sir,  you  are  too  great  a  man  for 
me;  and  I'm  afraid  of  you,  cousin — there  I  and  I  won't  M'orship  "; 
you,  and  you'll  never  be  happy  except  with  a  woman  who  will.   | 
Why,  after  I  belonged  to  you,  and  after  one  of  my  tantrums,  you 
would  have  put  the  pillow^  over  my  head  some  night,  and  smothered 
i  me,  as  the  black  man  does  the  woman  in  the  play  that  you're  so 
I  fond  of.     What's  the  creature's  name? — Desdemona.     You  would, 
I  you  little  black-dyed  Othello!" 

"I  think  I  should,  Beatrix,"  says  the  Colonel. 
"And  I  Want  no  such  ending.  I  intend  to  live  to  be  a  hundred, 
and  to  go  to  ten  thousand  routs  and  balls,  and  to  play  cards  every 
night  of  my  life  till  the  year  eighteen  hundred.  And  I  like  to  be 
the  first  of  my  company,  sir;  and  I  like  flattery  and  compliments, 
and  you  give  me  none:  and  I  like  to   be  made  to  laugh,  sir,  and 


430  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

who's  to  laugh  at  your  dismal  face,  I  should  like  to  know?  and  I 
like  a  coach-and-six  or  a  coach-and-eiglit;  and  I  like  diamonds,  and 
a  new  gown  every  week;  and  people  to  say,  'That's  the  Duchess. 
How  well  her  Grace  looks!  Make  way  for  Madame  rAmbassadrice 
d'Angleterre.  Call  her  Excellency's  people' — that's  what  I  like. 
And  as  for  you,  you  want  a  woman  to  bring  your  slippers  and  cap, 
and  to  sit  at  your  feet,  and  cry,  'O  caro!  O  bravo!'  whilst  you  read 
your  Shakspeares  and  Miltons  and  stuff.  Mamma  ^\ould  have  been 
the  wife  for  you;  had  you  been  a  little  older,  though  you  look  ten 
years  older  than  she  does— you  do,  you  glum-faced,  blue-bearded 
little  old  man!  You  might  have  sat,  like  Darby  and  Joan,  and 
flattered  each  other ;  and  billed  and  cooed  like  a  pair  of  old  pigeons 
on  a  perch.  I  want  my  wings  and  to  use  them,  sir."  And  she 
spread  out  her  beautiful  arms,  as  if  indeed  she  could  fly  off  like  the 
pretty  "Gawrie,"  whom  the  man  in  the  story  was  enamoured  of. 

"And  what  will  your  Peter  Wilkins  say  to  your  flight?''  says 
Esmond,  who  never  admired  this  fair  creature  more  than  when  she 
rebelled  and  laughed  at  him. 

"A  duchess  knows  her  place,"  says  she,  with  a  laugh.  '"Why,  I 
have  a  son  already  made  for  me,  and  thirty  years  old  (my  Lord 
Arran),  and  four  daughters.  How  they  will  scold,  and  what  a  rage' 
they  will  be  in,  when  I  come  to  take  the  head  of  the  table!  But  I 
give  them  only  a  month  to  be  angry ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  they 
shall  love  me  every  one,  and  so  shall  Lord  Arran,  and  so  shall  all 
his  Grace's  Scots  vassals  and  followers  in  the  Highlands.  I'm 
bent  on  it;  and  when  I  take  a  thing  in  my  head,  'tis  done.  His 
Grace  is  the  greatest  gentleman  in  Europe,  and  I'll  try  and  make 
him  happy;  and,  when  the  King  comes  back  you  may  count  on  my 
protection,  .Cousin  Esmond — for  come  back  the  King  will  and 
shall;  and  I'll  bring  him  back  from  Versailles,  if  he  comes  under 
my  hoop. ' ' 

"I  hope  the  world  will  make  you  happy,  Beatrix,"  says  Esmond, 
w\i\\  a  sigh.  "You'll  be  Beatrix  till  you  are  my  Lady  Duchess — 
will  you  not?     I  shall  then  make  your  Grace  my  very  lowest  bow." 

"None  of  these  sighs  and  this  satire,  cousin,"  she  says      "I  take 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  431 

his  Grace's  great  bounty  thankfully — yes,  thankfully;  and  will 
wear  his  honours  becomingly.  I  do  not  say  he  hath  touched  my 
heart;  but  he  has  my  gratitude,  obedience,  admiration — I  have 
told  him  that,  and  no  more ;  and  with  that  his  noble  heart  is  cor= 
tent.  I  have  told  him  all — even  the  story  of  tliat  poor  creature 
that  I  was  engaged  to — and  that  I  could  not  love;  and  I  gladly 
gave  his  word  back  to  him,  and  jumped  for  joy  to  get  back  my 
own.     I  am  twenty-five  years  old." 

"Twenty-six,  my  dear,"  says  Esmond. 

"Twenty-five,  sir — I  choose  to  be  twenty-five;  and  in  eight 
years  no  man  hath  ever  touched  my  heart.  Yes — you  did  once,  for 
a  little,  Harry,  when  you  came  back  after  Lille,  and  engaging 
with  that  murderer  Mohun,  and  saving  Frank's  life.  I  thought  I 
could  like  you ;  and  mamma  begged  me  hard,  on  her  knees,  and 
I  did — for  a  day.  But  the  old  chill  came  over  me,  Henry,  and  the 
old  fear  of  you  and  your  melancholy ;  and  I  was  glad  when  you 
went  away,  and  engaged  with  my  Lord  Ashburnham,  that  I  might 
hear  no  more  of  you,  that's  the  truth.  You  are  too  good  for  me, 
somehow.  I  could  not  make  you  happy,  and  should  break  my  heart 
in  trying,  and  not  being  able  to  love  you.  But  if  you  had  asked  me 
when  we  gave  you  the  sword,  you  might  have  had  me,  sir,  and  we 
both  should  have  been  miserable  by  this  time.  I  talked  with  that 
silly  lord  all  night  just  to  vex  you  and  mamma,  and  I  succeeded, 
didn't  I?  How  frankly  we  can  talk  of  these  things!  It  seems  a 
thousand  years  ago :  and,  though  we  are  here  sitting  in  the  same 
room,  there  is  a  great  wall  between  us.  My  dear,  kind,  faithful, 
gloomy  old  cousin !  I  can  like  now,  and  admire  you  too,  sir,  and 
say  that  you  are  brave,  and  very  kind,  and  very  true,  and  a  fine 
gentleman  for  all — for  all  your  little  mishap  at  your  birth,"  says 
she,  wagging  her  arch  head. 

"And  now,  sir,"  says  she,  with  a  curtsey,  "we  must  have 
no  more  talk  except  when  mamma  is  by,  or  his  Grace  is  with,  us ; 
for  he  does  not  half  like  you,  cousin,  and  is  jealous  as  the  black 
man  in  your  favourite  play." 

Though  the  very  kindness  of  the  words  stabbed  Mr.  Esmond 


433  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  " 

with  the  keenest  pang,  he  did  not  show  his  sense  of  the  wound  by 
any  look  of  his  (as  Beatrix,  indeed,  afterwards  owned  to  him),  but 
said,  with  a  perfect  command  of  himself  'and  an  easy  smile,  "The 
interview  must  not  end  yet,  my  dear,  until  I  have  had  my  last 
word.  Stay,  here  comes  your  mother"  (indeed  she  came  in  here 
with  her  sweet  anxious  face,  and  Esmond  going  up  kissed  her  hand 
respectfully).  "My  dear  lady  may  hear,  too,  the  last  words,  which 
are  no  secrets,  and  are  only  a  parting  benediction  accompanying  a 
present  for  your  marriage  from  an  old  gentleman  your  guardian ; 
for  I  feel  as  if  1  was  the  guardian  of  all  the  family,  and  an  old 
fellow  that  is  fit  to  be  the  grandfather  of  you  all;  and  in  this  char- 
acter let  me  make  my  Lady  Duchess  her  wedding  present.  They 
aro  the  diamonds  my  father's  widow  left  me.  I  had  thought 
Beatrix  might  have  had  them  a  year  ago;  but  they  are  good  enough 
for  a  Duchess,  though  not  bright  enough  for  the  handsomest  woman 
in  the  world."  And  he  took  the  case  out  of  his  pocket  in  which 
the  jewels  were,  and  presented  them  to  his  cousin. 

She  gave  a  cry  of  delight,  for  the  stones  were  indeed  very  hand- 
some, and  of  great  value :  and  the  next  minute  the  necklace  was 
where  Belinda's  cross  is  in  Mr.  Pope's  admirable  poem,  and  glitter- 
ing on  the  whitest  and  most  perfectly-shaped  neck  in  all  England. 

The  girl's  delight  at  receiving  these  trinkets  was  so  great,  that 
after  rushing  to  the  looking-glass  and  examining  the  effect  they 
produced  upon  that  fair  neck  which  they  surrounded,  Beatrix  was 
running  back  with  her  arms  extended,  and  was  perhaps  for  paying 
her  cousin  with  a  price  that  he  would  have  liked  no  doubt  to 
receive  from  those  beautiful  rosy  lips  of  hers,  but  at  this  moment 
the  door  opened,  and  his  Grace  the  bridegroom  elect  was 
announced. 

He  looked  very  black  upon  Mr.  Esmond,  to  whom  he  made  a 
very  low  bow  indeed,  and  kissed  the  hand  of  each  lady  in  his  most 
ceremonious  manner.  He  had  come  in  his  chair  from  the  palace 
hard  by,  and  wore  his  two  stars  of  the  Garter  and  the  Thistle. 

'Look,  my  Lord  Duke,"  says  Mistress  Beatrix    advancing  to 
him.  and  showing  the  diamonds  on  her  breast. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  433 

"Diamonds,"  says  his  Grace.     "Hm!  they  seem  pretty.  " 

"Tliey  are  a  present  on  my  marriage,"  says  Beatrix. 

"From  her  Majesty?"  asks  the  Duke.  "The  Queen  is  very  good." 

"From  my  Cousin  Henry — from  our  Cousin  Henry,"  cry  both 
the  ladies  in  a  breath. 

"I  have  not  the  honour  of  knowing  the  gentleman.  I  thought 
that  my  Lord  Castlewood  had  no  brother :  and  that  on  your  Lady- 
ship's side  there  were  no  nephews." 

"From  our  cousin,  Colonel  Henry  Esmond,  my  Lord,"  says 
Beatrix,  taking  the  Colonel's  hand  very  bravely,  "who  was  left 
guardian  to  us  by  our  father,  and  who  has  a  hundred  times  shown 
his  love  and  friendship  for  our  family." 

"The  Duchess  of  Hamilton  receives  no  diamonds  but  from  her 
husband,  madam,"  says  the  Duke;  "may  I  pray  you  to  restore  these 
to  Mr.  Esmond?" 

"Beatrix  Esmond  may  receive  a  present  from  our  kinsman  and 
benefactor,  my  Lord  Duke,"  says  Lady  Castlewood,  with  an  air 
of  great  dignity.  "She  is  my  daughter  yet:  and  if  her  mother 
sanctions  the  gift — no  one  else  hath  the  right  to  question  it." 

"Kinsman  and  benefactor!"  says  the  Duke.  "I  know  of  no 
kinsman :  and  I  do  not  choose  that  my  wife  should  have  for  bene- 
factor a " 

"My  Lord!"  says  Colonel  Esmond. 

"I  am  not  here  to  bandy  words,"  says  his  Grace;  "frankly  I  tell 
you  that  your  visits  to  this  house  are  too  frequent,  and  that 
I  choose  no  presents  for  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  from  gentlemen 
that  bear  a  name  they  have  no  right  to." 

"My  Lord!"  breaks  out  Lady  Castlewood,  "Mr,  Esmond  hath 
the  best  right  to  that  name  of  any  man  in  the  world:  and  'tis  as  old 
and  as  honourable  as  your  Grace's." 

^ly  Lord  Duke  smiled,  and  looked  as  if  Lady  Castlewood  was 
mad,  that  was  so  talking  to  him. 

"If  I  called  him  benefactor,"  said  my  mistress,  "it  is  because  he 
has  been  so  to  us — yes,  the  noblest,  the  truest,  the  bravest,  the 
dearest  of  benefactors.     He  would  have  saved  my  husband's  life 


434  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

from  Mohun's  sword.  He  did  save  my  boy's,  and  defended  him 
from  that  villain.     Are  those  no  benefits?" 

"I  ask  Colonel  Esmond's  pardon."  says  his  Grace,  if  possible 
more  haughty  than  before.  "I  would  say  not  a  word  that  should 
give  him  offence,  and  thank  him  for  his  kindness  to  your  Lady- 
ship's family.  My  Lord  Mohun  and  I  are  connected,  you  know,  by 
marriage— though  neither  by  blood  nor  friendship;  but  I  must 
repeat  what  I  said,  that  my  wife  can  receive  no  presents  from 
Colonel  Esmond." 

"My  daughter  may  receive  presents  from  the  Head  of  our 
House;  my  daughter  may  thankfully  take  kindness  from  her 
father's,  her  mother's,  her  brother's  dearest  friend ;  and  be  grate- 
ful for  one  more  benefit  besides  the  thousand  we  owe  him,"  cries 
Lady  Castle  wood.  "What  is  a  string  of  diamond  stones  compared  to 
that  affection  he  hath  given  us — our  dearest  preserver  and  benefac- 
tor? We  owe  him  not  only  Frank's  life,  but  our  all — yes,  our  all," 
says  my  mistress,  with  a  heightened  colour  and  a  trembling  voice. 
"The  title  we  bear  is  his,  if  he  would  claim  it.  'Tis  we  who  have 
no  right  to  our  name:  not  he  that's  too  great  for  it.  He  sacrificed 
his  name  at  my  dying  lord's  bedside— sacrificed  it  to  my  orphan 
children ;  gave  up  rank  and  honour  because  he  loved  us  so  nobly. 
His  father  was  Viscount  of  Castle  wood  and  Marquis  of  Esmond 
before  him ;  and  he  is  his  father's  lawful  son  and  true  heir,  and  we 
are  the  recipients  of  his  bounty,  and  he  the  chief  of  a  house  that's 
as  old  as  your  own.  And  if  he  is  content  to  forego  his  name  that 
my  child  may  bear  it,  we  love  him  and  honour  him  and  bless  him 
under  whatever  name  he  bears" — and  here  the  fond  and  affection- 
ate creature  would  have  knelt  to  Esmond  again,  but  that  he 
prevented  her ;  and  Beatrix,  running  up  to  her  with  a  pale  face 
and  a  cry  of  alarm,  embraced  her  and  said,  "Mother,  what  is  this?'* 

"'Tis  a  famil}^  secret,  my  Lord  Duke,''  says  Colonel  Esmond: 
"poor  Beatrix  knew  nothing  of  it;  nor  did  my  Lady  till  a  year  ago. 
And  I  have  as  good  a  right  to  resign  my  title  as  your  Grace's 
mother  to  abdicate  hers  to  you." 

"I  should  have  told  everything  to  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,"  said 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  435 

my  mistress,  "had  his  Grace  applied  to  me  for  my  daughter's 
hand,  and  not  to  Beatrix.  I  should  have  spoken  with  you  this 
very  day  in  private,  my  Lord,  liad  not  your  words  brought  about 
this  sudden  explanation — and  now 'tis  fit  Beatrix  should  hear  it; 
?i,nd  know,  as  I  Avould  have  all  the  world  know,  what  we  owe  to 
our  kinsman  and  patron." 

And  then,  in  her  touching  way,  and  having  hold  of  her  daugh- 
ter's hand,  and  speaking  to  her  rather  than  my  Lord  Duke,  Lady 
Castlewood  told  the  story  which  you  know  alreadj'^ — lauding  up  to 
the  skies  her  kinsman's  behaviour.  On  his  side  Mr.  Esmond 
explained  the  reasons  that  seemed  quite  sufficiently  cogent  with 
him,  why  the  succession  in  the  family,  as  at  present  it  stood,  should 
not  be  disturbed ;  and  he  should  remain  as  he  was.  Colonel  Esmond. 

*'x\nd  Marquis  of  Esmond,  my  Lord,"  says  his  Grace,  with  a 
low  bow.  "Permit  me  to  ask  your  Lordship's  pardon  for  words  that 
were  uttered  in  ignorance;  and  to  beg  for  the  favour  of  your 
friendship.  To  be  allied  to  you,  sir,  must  be  an  honour  under 
whatever  name  you  are  known"  (so  his  Grace  was  pleased  to  say); 
"and  in  return  for  the  splendid  present  you  made  my  wife,  your 
kinswoman,  I  hope  you  will  please  to  command  any  service  that 
James  Douglas  can  perform.  I  shall  never  be  easy  until  I  repay 
you  a  part  of  my  obligations  at  least;  and  ere  very  long,  and  with 
the  mission  her  Majesty  hath  given  me,"  says  the  Duke,  "that  may 
perhaps  be  in  my  power.  I  shall  esteem  it  as  a  favour,  my  Lord,  if 
Colonel  Esmond  will  give  a\;^ay  the  bride." 

"And  if  he  will  take  the  usual  payment  in  advance,  he  is  wel- 
come," says  Beatrix,  stepping  up  to  him;  and,  as  Esmond  kissed 
her,  she  whispered,  "Oh,  why  didn't  I  know  you  before?" 

My  Lord  Duke  was  as  hot  as  a  flame  at  tliis  salute,  but 
said  never  a  word:  Beatrix  made  him  a  proud  curtsey,  and  the  two 
ladies  quitted  the  room  together. 

"When  does  your  Excellency  go  for  Paris?"  asks  Colonel 
Esmond. 

"As  soon  after  the  ceremony  as  may  be,"  his  Grace  answered. 
■"  'Tis  fixed  for  the  first  of  December:  it  cannot  be  sooner.     The 


436  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

equipage  will  not  be  ready  till  then.  The  Queen  intends  the 
embassy  should  be  very  grand — and  I  have  law  business  to  settle. 
That  ill-omened  Mohun  has  come,  or  is  coming,  to  London  again: 
we  are  in  a  lawsuit  about  my  late  Lord  Gerard's  property ;  and  he 
hath  sent  to  me  to  meet  hira." 


CHAPTER  r 

MOHUN   APPEARS  FOR   THE   LAST  TIME  IN    THIS    HISTORY 

Besides  my  Lord  Duke  of  Hamilton  and  Brandon,  who  for  fam- 
ily reasons  had  kindly  promised  liis  protection  and  patronage  to 
Colonel  Esmond,  he  had  other  great  friends  in  power  now,  both 
able  and  willing  to  assist  him,  and  he  might,  with  such  allies,  look 
forward  to  as  fortunate  advancement  in  civil  life  at  home  as  he  had 
got  rapid  promotion  abroad.  His  Grace  was  magnanimous  enough 
to  offer  to  take  Mr.  Esmond  as  secretary  on  his  Paris  embassy,  but 
no  doubt  he  intended  that  proposal  sliould  be  rejected ;  at  any  rate, 
Esmond  could  not  bear  the  thoughts  of  attending  his  mistress 
farther  than  the  church-door  after  her  marriage,  and  so  declined 
that  offer  which  his  generous  rival  made  him. 

Other  gentlemen  in  power  were  liberal  at  least  of  compliments 
and  promises  to  Colonel  Esmond.  Mr.  Harley,  now  become  my 
Lord  Oxford  and  Mortimer,  and  installed  Knight  of  the  Garter  on 
the  same  day  as  his  Grace  of  Hamilton  had  received  the  same 
honour,  sent  to  the  Colonel  to  say  that  a  seat  in  Parliament  should 
be  at  his  disposal  presently,  and  Mr.  St.  John  held  out  many  flat- 
tering hopes  of  advancement  to  the  Colonel  when  he  should  enter 
the  House.  Esmond's  friends  were  all  successful,  and  the  most  suc- 
cessful and  triumphant  of  all  was  his  dear  old  commander.  General 
Webb,  who  was  now  appointed  Lieutenant-General  of  the  Land 
Forces,  and  received  with  particular  honour  by  the  Ministry,  by 
the  Queen,  and  the  people  out  of  doors,  who  huzza'd  the  brave 
chief  when  they  used  to  see  him  in  his  chariot  going  to  the  House 
or  to  the  Drawing-room,  or  hobbling  on  foot  to  his  coach  from  St. 
Stephen's  upon  his  glorious  old  crutch  and  stick,  and  cheered  him 
as  loud  as  they  had  ever  done  Marlborough. 

That  great  Duke  was  utterly  disgraced;  and  honest  old  Webb 

437 


458  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

dated  all  his  Grace's  misfortunes  from  Wynendael,  and  vowed  that 
Fate  served  the  traitor  right.  Duchess  Sarah  had  also  gone  to 
ruin;  she  had  been  forced  to  give  up  her  keys,  and  her  places,  and 
her  pensions: — "Ah,  ah!"  says  Webb,  "she  would  have  locked  up 
three  millions  of  French  crowns  with  her  keys  had  I  but  been 
knocked  on  the  head,  but  I  stopped  that  convoy  at  Wynendael."* 
Our  enemy  Cardonnel  was  turned  out  of  the  House  of  Commons 
(along  with  Mr.  Walpole)  for  malversation  of  public  money. 
Cadogan  lost  his  place  of  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower.  Marlborough's 
daughters  resigned  their  posts  of  ladies  of  the  bedchamber;  and  so 
complete  was  the  Duke's  disgrace,  that  his  son-in-law,  Lord 
Bridgewater,  was  absolutely  obliged  to  give  up  his  lodgings  at  St. 
James's,  and  had  his  half-pension,  as  Master  of  the  Horse,  taken 
away.  But  I  think  the  lowest  depth  of  Marlborough's  fall  was 
when  he  humbly  sent  to  ask  General  Webb  when  he  might  wait 
upon  him ;  he  who  had  commanded  the  stout  old  General,  who  had 
injured  him  and  sneered  at  him,  who  had  kept  him  dangling  in  his 
antechamber,  who  could  not  even  after  his  great  service  conde;- 
scend  to  write  him  a  letter  in  his  own  hand !  The  nation  was  as 
eager  for  peace  as  ever  it  had  been  hot  for  war.  The  Prince  cf 
Savoy  came  amongst  us,  had  his  audience  of  the  Queen,  and  got  his 
famous  Sword  of  Honour,  and  strove  with  all  his  force  to  form  a 
Whig  party  together,  to  bring  over  the  young  Prince  of  Hanover — 
to  do  anything  wliich  might  prolong  the  war,  and  consummate  tlie 
ruin  of  the  old  sovereign  whom  he  hated  so  implacably.  But  the 
nation  was  tired  of  the  struggle:  so  completely  wearied  of  it  that 
not  even  our  defeat  at  Denain  could  rouse  us  into  any  anger, 
though  such  an  action  so  lost  two  years  before  w^ould  liave  set  all 
England  in  a  fury.  'Twas  easy  to  see  that  the  great  i\Iarlborough 
was  not  with  the  army.  Eugene  was  obliged  to  fall  back  in  a  rage, 
and  forego  the  dazzling  revenge  of  his  life.  'Twas  in  vain  the 
Duke's  side  asked,  "Would  we  suffer  our  arms  to  be  insulted'? 
Would  we  not  send  back  the  only  champion  who  could  repair  our 
honour?"  The  nation  had  had  its  bellyful  of  fighting;  nor  could 
taunts  or  outcries  goad  up  our  Britons  any  more 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  439 

For  a  statesman  that  was  always  prating  of  liberty,  and  had  the 
grandest  philosophic  maxims  in  his  mouth,  it  must  be  owned  that 
Mr.  St.  John  sometimes  rather  acted  like  a  Turkish  than  a  Greek 
philosopher,  and  especially  fell  foul  of  one  unfortunate  set  of  men, 
the  men  of  letters,  with  a  tyranny  a  little  extraordinary  in  a  man 
who  professed  to  respect  their  calling  so  nmch.  The  literary  con- 
troversy at  this  time  was  very  bitter,  the  Government  side  was  tlie 
vvinning  one,  the  popular  one,  and  I  think  might  have  been  the 
merciful  one.  'Twas  natural  that  the  Opposition  should  be  peevish 
and  cry  out:  some  men  did  so  from  their  hearts,  admiring  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough's  prodigious  talents,  and  deploring  the  disgrace  of 
the  greatest  general  the  world  ever  knew:  'twas  the  stomach  that 
caused  other  patriots  to  grumble,  and  such  men  cried  out  because 
they  were  poor,  and  paid  to  do  so.  Against  these  my  Lord  Boling- 
broke  never  showed  the  slightest  mercy,  whipping  a  dozen  into 
prison  or  into  the  pillory  without  the  least  commiseration. 

From  having  been  a  man  of  arms  Mr.  Esmond  had  now  come  to 
be  a  man  of  letters,  but  on  a  safer  side  than  that  in  wdiich  the 
above-cited  poor  fellows  ventured  their  liberties  and  ears.  There 
w^as  no  danger  on  ours,  which  w^as  the  winning  side;  besides,  Mr. 
Esmond  pleased  himself  by  thinking  that  he  writ  like  a  gentleman 
if  he  did  not  always  succeed  as  a  wit. 

Of  the  famous  wits  of  that  age,  who  have  rendered  Queen 
Anne's  reign  illustrious,  and  whose  works  will  be  in  all  English- 
men's hands  in  ages  yet  to  come,  Mr.  Esmond  saw  many,  but  at 
public  places  chiefly;  never  having  a  great  intimacy  with  any  of 
them,  except  with  honest  Dick  Steele  and  Mr.  Addison,  who  parted 
company  with  Esmond,  however,  when  that  gentleman  became  a 
declared  Tory,  and  lived  on  close  terms  with  the  leading  persons  of 
that  party.  Addison  kept  himself  to  a  few  frieiids,  and  very  rarely 
opened  himself  except  in  their  company.  A  man  more  upright  and 
conscientious  than  he  it  was  not  possible  to  find  in  public  life,  and 
one  whose  conversation  was  so  various,  easy,  and  delightful.  Writ- 
ing now  in  my  mature  years,  I  own  that  I  think  Addison's  politic* 
were  the  right,  and  were  my  time  to  come  over  again,  I  would  be  i^ 


4i0  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Whig  in  England  and  not  a  Tory;  but  with  people  that  take  a  side 
in  Dolitics,  'tis  men  rather  than  principles  that  commonly  bind 
them.  A  kindness  or  a  slight  puts  a  man  under  one  flag  or  the 
other,  and  he  marches  with  it  to  the  end  of  the  campaign. 
Esmond's  master  in  war  was  injured  by  Marlborough,  and  hated 
him ;  and  the  lieutenant  fought  the  quarrels  of  his  leader.  Webb 
coming  to  London  was  used  as  a  weapon  by  Marlborough's  enemies 
(and  true  steel  he  was,  that  honest  chief);  nor  was  his  aide  de- 
camp, Mr.  Esmond,  an  unfaithful  or  unworthy  partisan.  'Tis 
strange  here,  and  on  a  foreign  soil,  and  in  a  land  that  is  independ- 
ent in  all  but  the  name  (for  that  the  North  American  colonies  shall 
remain  dependants  on  yonder  little  island  for  twentj^  years  more, 
I  never  can  think),  to  remember  how  the  nation  at  home  seemed  to 
give  itself  up  to  the  domination  of  one  or  other  aristocratic  party 
and  took  a  Hanoverian  king,  or  a  French  one,  according  as  either 
prevailed.  And  while  the  Tories,  the  October  Club  gentlemen,  the 
High  Church  parsons  that  held  by  the  Church  of  England,  were  for 
having  a  Papist  king,  for  whom  many  oi  their  Scottish  and  English 
leaders,  firm  churchmen  all,  laid  down  their  lives  with  admirable 
loyalty  and  devotion;  they  were  governed  by  men  who  had  notori- 
ously no  religion  at  all,  but  used  it  as  they  would  use  any  opinion 
for  the  purpose  of  forwarding  their  own  ambition.  The  Whigs,  on 
the  other  hand,  who  professed  attachment  to  religion  and  liberty 
too,  were  compelled  to  send  to  Holland  or  Hanover  for  a  monarch 
around  whom  they  could  rally.  A  strange  series  of  compromises  is 
that  English  History:  compromise  of  principle,  compromise  'of 
party,  compromise  of  worship!  The  lovers  of  English  freedom  and 
independence  submitted  their  religious  consciences  to  an  Act  of 
Parliament;  could  not  consolidate  their  liberty  without  sending  to 
Zell  or  the  Hague  for  a  king  to  live  under;  and  could  not  find 
amongst  the  proudest  people  in  the  world  a  man  speaking  their 
own  language,  and  understanding  their  laws,  to  govern  them.  The 
Tory  and  High  Church  patriots  were  ready  to  die  in  defence  of  a 
Papist  family  that  had  sold  us  to  France ;  the  great  Whig  nobles, 
the  sturdy  republican  recusants  who  had  cut  off  Charles  Stuart's 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  441 

head  for  treason,  were  fain  to  accept  a  King  whose  title  came  to 
him  through  a  royal  grandmother,  whose  own  royal  grandmothers 
head  had  fallen  under  Queen  Bess's  hatchet.  And  our  proud 
English  nobles  sent  to  a  petty  German  town  for  a  monarch  to  come 
and  reign  in  London ;  and  our  prelates  kissed  the  ugly  hands  of  his 
Dutch  mistresses,  and  thought  it  no  dishonour.  In  England  you 
can  but  belong  to  one  party  or  t'other,  and  you  take  the  house  you 
live  in  with  all  its  encumbrances,  its  retainers,  its  antique  discom- 
forts, and  ruins  even ;  you  patch  up,  but  you  never  build  up  anew. 
Will  we  of  the  New  World  submit  much  longer,  even  nominally,  to 
this  ancient  British  superstition?  There  are  signs  of  the  times 
which  make  me  think  that  ere  long  we  shall  care  as  little  about 
King  George  here,  and  peers  temporal  and  peers  spiritual,  as  we  do 
for  King  Canute  or  the  Druids. 

This  chapter  began  about  the  wits,  my  grandson  may  say,  and 
hath  wandered  very  far  from  their  company.  The  pleasantest  of 
the  wits  I  knew  were  the  Doctors  Garth  and  Arbuthnot,  and  Mr. 
Gay,  the  author  of  "Trivia,"  tlie  most  charming  kind  soul  that  ever 
laughed  at  a  joke  or  cracked  a  bottle.  Mr.  Prior  I  saw,  and  he 
was  the  earthen  pot  swimming  with  tlie  pots  of  brass  down  the 
stream,  and  always  and  justly  frightened  lest  he  should  break  in 
the  voyage.  I  met  him  both  at  London  and  Paris,  where  he  was 
performing  piteous  congees  to  the  Duke  of  Slirewsbury,  not  having 
courage  to  support  the  dignity  which  his  undeniable  genius  and 
talent  had  won  him,  and  writing,  coaxing  letters  to  Secretary  St. 
John,  and  thinking  about  his  plate  and  his  place,  and  what  on 
earth  should  become  of  him  should  his  party  go  out.  The  famous 
Mr.  Congreve  I  saw  a  dozen  of  times  at  Button's,  a  splendid  wreck  of 
a  man,  magnificently  attired,  and  though  gouty,  and  almost  blind, 
bearing  a  brave  face  against  fortune. 

The  great  Mr.  Pope  (of  whose  prodigious  genius  I  have  no  words 
to  express  my  admiration)  was  quite  a  puny  lad  at  this  time, 
appearing  seldom  in  public  places.  There  were  hundreds  of  men. 
wits,  and  pretty  fellows  frequenting  the  theatres  and  coffee-houses 
;of  that  day — whom  "nunc  perscribere  longuni  est."'    Indeed  I  think 


442  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

the  most  brilliant  of  that  sort  I  ever  saw  was  not  till  fifteen  years 
afterwards,  when  I  paid  my  last  visit  in  England,  and  met  young 
Harry  Fielding,  son  of  the  Fielding  that  served  in  Spain  and  after- 
wards in  Flanders  with  us,  and  who  for  fun  and  humour  seemed  to 
top  them  all.  As  for  the  famous  Doctor  Swift,  I  can  say  of  him, 
"Vidi  tantum."  He  was  in  London  all  these  years  up  to  the  death 
of  the  Queen ;  and  in  a  hundred  public  places  where  I  saw  him,  but 
no  more ;  he  never  missed  Court  of  a  Sunday,  where  once  or  twice 
he  was  pointed  out  to  your  grandfather.  He  would  have  sought  me 
out  eagerly  enough  had  I  been  a  great  man  with  a  title  to  my 
name,  or  a  star  on  my  coat.  At  Court,  the  Doctor  had  no  eyes  but 
for  the  very  greatest.  Lord  Treasurer  and  St.  John  used  to  call 
him  Jonathan,  and  they  paid  him  with  this  cheap  coin  for  the 
service  they  took  of  him.  He  writ  their  lampoons,  fought  their 
enemies,  flogged  and  bullied  in  their  service,  and  it  must  be  owned 
with  a  consummate  skill  and  fierceness.  'Tis  said  he  hath  lost  his 
intellect  now,  and  forgotten  his  wrongs  and  his  rage  against  man- 
kind. I  have  always  thought  of  him  and  of  Marlborough  as  tlie 
two  greatest  men  of  that  age.  I  have  read  his  books  (who  doth  not 
know  them?)  here  in  our  calm  woods,  and  imagine  a  giant  to  myself 
as  I  think  of  him,  a  lonely  fallen  Prometheus,  groaning  as  the 
vulture  tears  him.  Prometheus  I  saw,  but  when  first  I  ever  had 
any  words  with  him,  the  giant  stepped  out  of  a  sedan  chair  in  the 
Poultry,  whither  he  had  come  with  a  tipsy  Irish  servant  paradin 
before  him,  who  announced  him,  bawling  out  his  Reverence's! 
name,  whilst  his  master  below  was  as  yet  haggling  with  the  chair-  \ 
man.  I  disliked  this  Mr.  Swift,  and  heard  many  a  story  about  him, 
of  his  conduct  to  men,  and  his  words  to  women.  He  could  flatter 
the  great  as  much  as  he  could  bully  the  weak;  and  Mr.  Esmond, 
being  younger  and  hotter  in  that  day  than  now,  was  determined, 
should  he  ever  meet  this  dragon,  not  to  run  away  from  his  teetii 
and  his  fire. 

Men  have  all  sorts  of  motives  which  carry  them  onwards  in  life, 
and  are  driven  into  acts  of  desperation,  o]-  it  may  be  of  distinction, 
from   a  hundred   different    causes.     There    was    one   comrade   of 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  443 

!  Esmond's,  an  honest  little  Irish  lieutenant  of  Handyside's,   who 
owed  so  much  money  to  a  camp  sutler,  that  he  began  to  make  love 

\  to  the  man's  daughter,  intending  to  pay  his  debt  that  way  •  and  at 
the  battle  of  Malplaquet,  flying  away  from  the  debt  and  lady  too, 
he  rushed  so  desperately  on  the  French  lines,  that  he  got  his  com 
pany ;  and  came  a  captain  out  of  the  action,  and  had  to  marry  the 
sutler's  daughter  after  all,  who  brought  him  his  cancelled  debt  to 
her  father  as  poor  Roger's  fortune.  To  run  out  of  the  reach  of  bill 
and  marriage,  he  ran  on  the  enemj^'s  pikes;  and  as  these  did  not 
kill  him  he  was  thrown  back  upon  t'other  horn  of  his  dilemma. 
Our  great  Duke  at  the  same  battle  was  fighting,  not  the  French, 
but  the  Tories  in  England ;  and  risking  his  life  and  the  army's,  not 
for  his  country  but  for  his  pay  and  places;  and  for  fear  of  his  wife 
at  home,  that  only  being  in  life  whom  he  dreaded.  I  have  asked 
about  men  in  my  own  company  (new  drafts  of  poor  country  boys 
were  perpetually  coming  over  to  us  during  the  wars,  and  brought 
from  the  ploughshare  to  the  sword),  and  found  that  a  half  of  them 
under  the  flags  were  driven  thither  on  account  of  a  woman :  one 
fellow  was  jilted  by  his  mistress  and  took  the  shilling  in  despair ; 
another  jilted  the  girl,  and  fled  from  her  and  the  parish  to  the  tents 
where  the  law  could  not  disturb  him.  Why  go  on  particularising? 
What  can  the  sons  of  Adam  and  Eve  expect,  but  to  continae  in 
that  course  of  love  and  trouble  their  father  and  mother  set  out  on? 
O  my  grandson!  I  am  drawing  nigh  to  the  end  of  that  period  of 
my  history,  when  I  was  acquainted  with  the  great  world  of 
England  and  Europe ;  my  years  are  past  the  Hebrew  poet's  limit, 
and  I  say  unto  thee,  all  my  troubles  and  joys  too,  for  that  matter, 
have  come  from  a  woman ;  as  thine  will  when  thy  destined  course 
begins.  "Twas  a  woman  that  made  a  soldier  of  me,  that  set  me 
intriguing  afterwards;  I  believe  I  '.vould  have  spun  smocks  for  her 
had  she  so  bidden  me ;  what  strength  I  had  in  my  head  I  would 
have  given  her ;  hath  not  every  man  in  his  degree  had  his  Omphalo 
and  Delilah?  Mine  befooled  me  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  ani 
in  dear  old  England ;  thou  mayest  And  thine  own  by  Rappaliannoc 
To  please  that  woman  then  I  tried  to  distinguish  myself  as  a  sol- 


444  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

dier,  and  afterwards  as  a  wit  and  a  politician ;  as  to  please  another 
I  would  have  put  on  a  black  cassock  and  a  pair  of  bands,  and  had 
done  so  but  that  a  superior  fate  intervened  to  defeat  that  project. 
And  I  say,  I  think  the  world  is  like  Captain  Esmond's  company 
I  spoke  of  anon ;  and  could  you  see  every  man's  career  in  life,  you 
would  find  a  woman  clogging  him ;  or  clinging  round  his  march 
and  stopping  him;  or  cheering  him  and  goading  him,  or  beckoning 
him  ovit  of  her  chariot,  so  that  he  goes  up  to  her,  and  leaves  the 
race  to  be  run  without  him;  or  bringing  him  the  apple,  ana  saying 
"Eat;"  or  fetching  him  the  daggers  and  whispering  "Kill!  yonder 
lies  Duncan,  and  a  crown,  and  an  opportunity." 

Your  grandfather  fought  with  more  effect  as  a  politician  than 
as  a  wit;  and  having  private  animosities  and  grievances  of  his  own 
and  his  General's  against  the  great  Duke  in  command  of  the  army, 
and  more  information  on  militarj^  matters  than  most  writers,  who 
had  never  seen  beyond  the  fire  of  a  tobacco-pipe  at  "Wills's,"  he 
was  enabled  to  do  good  service  for  that  cause  which  he  embarked 
in,  and  for  Mr.  St.  John  and  his  party.  But  he  disdained  the 
abuse  in  which  some  of  the  Tory  writers  indulged ;  for  instance, 
Doctor  Swift,  who  actuall}^  chose  to  doubt  the  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough's courage,  and  was  pleased  to  hint  that  his  Grace's  military 
capacity  was  doubtful:  nor  were  Esmond's  performances  worse  for 
the  effect  they  were  intended  to  produce  (though  no  doubt  they 
could  not  injure  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  nearly  so  much  in  the 
public  eyes  as  the  malignant  attacks  of  Swift  did,  which  were  care- 
fully directed  so  as  to  blacken  and  degrade  him),  because  they  were 
writ  openly  and  fairly  by  Mr.  Esmond,  who  made  no  disguise  of 
them,  who  was  now  out  of  the  army,  and  who  never  attacked  the 
prodigious  courage  and  talents,  only  the  selfishness  and  rapacity, 
of  the  chief. 

The  Colonel  then,  having  writ  a  paper  for  one  of  the  Tory  jour- 
nals, called  the  Post-Boy  (a  letter  upon  Bouchain,  that  the  town 
talked  about  for  two  whole  days,  when  the  appearance  of  an 
Italian  singer  supplied  a  fresh  subject  for  conversation)  and  hav- 
ing business  at  the  Exchange,  where  Mrs.  Beatrix  wanted  a  pair  of 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  445 

gloves  or  a  fan  very  likely,  Esmond  went  to  correct  his  paper,  and 
was  sitting  at  the  printer's,  when  the  famous  Doctor  Swift  came 
in,  his  Irish  fellow  with  him  that  used  to  walk  before  his  chair, 
and  bawled  out  his  master's  name  with  great  dignity. 

Mr.  Esmond  was  waiting  for  the  printer  too,  whose  wife  had 
gone  to  the  tavern  to  fetch  him,  and  was  meantime  engaged  in 
drawing  a  picture  of  a  soldier  on  horseback  for  a  dirty  little  pretty 
boy  of  the  printer's  wife,  w^hom  she  had  left  behind  her. 

"I  presume  you  are  the  editor  of  the  Post-Boy,  sir?"  says  the 
Doctor  in  a  grating  voice  that  had  an  Irish  twang;  and  he  looked 
at  the  Colonel  from  under  his^  two  bushy  eyebrows  with  a  pair  of 
very  clear  blue  eyes.  His  complexion  was  muddy,  his  figure  rather 
fat,  his  chin  double.  He  wore  a  shabby  cassock,  and  a  shabby  hat 
over  his  black  wig,  and  he  pulled  out  a  great  gold  watch,  at  which 
he  looks  very  fierce. 

"I  am  but  a  contributor,  Doctor  Swift,"  says  Esmond,  with  the 
little  boy  still  on  his  knee.  He  was  sitting  with  his  back  in  the 
window,  so  that  the  Doctor  could  not  see  him. 

"Who  told  you  I  was  Doctor  Swift?"  says  the  Doctor,  eyeing 
the  other  very  haughtily. 

"Your  Reverence's  valet  bawled  out  your  name,"  says  the 
Colonel.     "I  should  judge  you  brought  him  from  Ireland?" 

"And  pray,  sir,  what  right  have  you  to  judge  whether  my 
servant  came  from  Ireland  or  no?  I  want  to  speak  with  your 
employer,  Mr.  Leach.     I'll  thank  ye  go  fetch  him." 

"Where's  your  papa.  Tommy?"  asks  the  Colonel  of  the  child,  a 
smutty  little  wretch  in  a  frock. 

Instead  of  answering,  the  child  begins  to  cry;  the  Doctor's 
appearance  had  no  doubt  frightened  the  poor  little  imp. 

"Send  that  squalling  little  brat  about  his  business,  and  do  what 
I  bid  ye,  sir,"  says  the  Doctor. 

"I  must  finish  the  picture  first  for  Tommy,"  says  the  Colonel, 
laughing.  "Here,  Tommy,  will  you  have  your  Pandour  with 
whiskers  or  without?" 

''Whisters,''  says  Tommy,  quite  intent  on  the  picture. 


446  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

"Who  the  devil  are  ye,  sir?"  cries  the  Doctor;  "are  ye  a 
printer's  man,  or  are  ye  not?"  he  pronounced  it  like  naught. 

"Your  Reverence  needn't  raise  the  devil  to  ask  who  I  am,"  says 
Colonel  Esmond.  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  Doctor  Faustus,  little 
Tommy?  or  Friar  Bacon,  who  invented  gunpowder,  and  set  the 
Thames  on  fire?" 

Mr.  Swift  turned  quite  red,  almost  purple.  "I  did  not  intend 
any  offence,  ^ir,"  says  he. 

"I  dare  say,  sir,  you  offended  without  meaning,"  says  the  other 
drily. 

"Who  are  ye,  sir?  Do  you  know  who  I  am,  sir?  You  are  one  of 
the  pack  of  Grub  Street  scribblers  that  my  friend  Mr.  Secretary 
hath  laid  by  the  heels.  How  dare  ye,  sir,  speak  to  me  in  this  tone?" 
cries  the  Doctor  in  a  great  fume. 

"I  beg  your  honour's  humble  pardon  if  I  have  offended  your  I 
honour,"  says  Esmond,  in  a  tone  of  great  humility.  "Rather  than 
be  sent  to  the  Compter,  or  be  put  in  the  pillory,  there's  nothing  I 
wouldn't  do.  But  Mrs.  Leach,  the  printer's  lady,  told  me  to  mind 
Tommy  whilst  she  went  for  her  husband  to  the  tavern,  and  I 
daren't  leave  the  child  lest  he  should  fall  into  the  fire ;  but  if  your 
Reverence  will  hold  him " 

"I  take  the  little  beast!"  says  the  Doctor,  starting  back.  "I  am 
engaged  to  yoar  betters,  fellow.  Tell  Mr.  Leach  that  when  he 
makes  an  appointment  with  Doctor  Swift  he  had  best  keep  it,  do  ye 
hear?  And  keep  a  respectful  tongue  in  your  head,  sir,  when  you 
address  a  person  like  me." 

"I'm  but  a  poor  broken-down  soldier,"  says  the  Colonel,  "and 
I've  seen  better  days,  though  I  am  forced  now  to  tin-n  my  hand  to 
writing.     We  can't  help  our  fate,  sir." 

"You're  the  person  that  Mr.  Leach  hath  spoken  to  me  of,  I  pre- 
sume. Have  the  goodness  to  speak  civilly  when  you  are  spoken  to 
— and  tell  Leach  to  call  at  my  lodgings  in  Bury  Street,  and  bring 
the  papers  with  him  to-night  at  ten  o'clock.  And  the  next  time 
you  see  me,  you'll  know  me,  and  be  civil,  Mr.  Kemp." 

Poor  Kemp,  who  had  been  a  lieutenant  at  the  beginning  of  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  447 

war,  and  fallen  into  misfortune,  was  the  writer  of  the  Post- Boy, 
and  now  took  honest  Mr.  Leach's  pay  in  place  of  her  Majesty's. 
Esmond  had  seen  this  gentleman,  and  a  very  ingenious,  hartl- 
working,  honest  fellow  he  was,  toiling  to  give  bread  to  a  great 
family,  and  watching  up  many  a  long  winter  night  to  keep  the 
wolf  from  his  door.  And  Mr.  St.  John,  who  had  liberty  always  on 
his  tongue,  had  just  sent  a  dozen  of  the  Opposition  writers  into 
prison,  and  one  actually  into  the  pillory,  for  what  he  called  libels, 
but  libels  not  half  so  violent  as  those  writ  on  our  side.  With 
regard  to  this  very  piece  of  tyranny,  Esmond  had  remonstrated 
strongly  with  the  Secretary,  who  laughed,  and  said  the  rascals 
were  served  quite  right;  and  told  Esmond  a  joke  of  Swift's  regard- 
ing the  matter.  Nay,  more,  this  Irishman,  when  St.  John  was 
about  to  pardon  a  poor  wretch  condemned  to  death  for  rape,  abso- 
lutely prevented  the  Secretary  from  exercising  this  act  of  good- 
nature, and  boasted  that  he  had  had  the  man  hanged ;  and  great  as 
the  Doctor's  genius  might  be,  and  splendid  his  ability,  Esmond  for 
one  would  affect  no  love  for  him,  and  never  desired  to  make  his 
acquaintance.  The  Doctor  was  at  Court  every  Sunday  assiduously 
enough,  a  place  the  Colonel  frequented  but  rarely,  though  he  had 
a  great  inducement  to  go  there  in  the  person  of  a  fair  maid  of 
honour  of  her  Majest^'^'s;  and  the  airs  and  patronage  Mr.  Swift 
gave  himself,  forgetting  gentlemen  of  his  country  whom  he  knew 
perfectly,  his  loud  talk  at  once  insolent  and  servile,  nay,  perhaps, 
his  very  intimacy  with  Lord  Treasurer  and  the  Secretary,  who 
indulged  all  his  freaks  and  called  him  Jonatlian,  you  may  be  sure, 
were  remarked  by  many  a  person  of  whom  the  proud  priest  himself 
took  no  note,  during  that  time  of  his  vanity  and  triumj)h. 

'Twas  but  three  days  after  the  15th  of  November  1712  (Esmond 
minds  him  well  of  the  date),  that  he  went  by  invitation  to  dine 
with  his  General,  the  foot  of  whose  table  he  used  to  take  on  these 
festive  occasions,  as  he  had  done  at  many  a  board,  hard  and  plenti- 
ful, during  the  campaign.  This  was  a  great  feast,  and  of  the  latter 
sort;  the  honest  old  gentleman  loved  to  treat  his  friends  splendidly: 
kis  Grace  of  Ormonde,  before  he  joined  his  army  as  Generalissimo; 


448  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

my  Lord  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  one  of  her  Majesty  s  Secretaries  of 
State;  my  Lord  Orkney,  that  had  served  with  us  abroad,  being  of 
the  party.  His  Grace  of  Hamilton,  Master  of  the  Ordnance,  and  in 
whose  honour  the  feast  had  been  given,  upon  liis  approaching 
departure  as  Ambassador  to  Paris,  had  sent  an  excuse  to  General 
Webb  at  two  o'clock,  but  an  hour  before  the  dinner:  nothing  but 
the  most  immediate  business,  his  Grace  said,  should  have  prevented 
him  having  the  pleasure  of  drinking  a  parting  glass  to  the  health  of 
General  Webb.  His  absence  disappointed  Esmond's  old  chief,  who 
suffered  much  from  his  wounds  besides;  and  though  the  company 
was  grand,  it  was  rather  gloomy.  St.  John  came  last,  and  brought 
a  friend  with  him:  "I'm  sure,"  says  my  General,  bowing  very 
politely,  "my  table  hath  always  a  place  for  Doctor  Swift." 

Mr.  Esmond  went  up  to  the  Doctor  with  a  bow  and  a  smile: — "I 
gave  Doctor  Swift's  message,"  says  he,  "to  the  printer:  I  hope  he 
brought  your  pamphlet  to  your  lodgings  in  time."  Indeed  poor 
Leach  had  come  to  his  house  very  soon  after  the  Doctor  left  it, 
being  brought  away  rather  tipsy  from  the  tavern  by  his  thrifty 
wife;  and  he  talked  of  Cousin  Swift  in  a  maudlin  way,  though  of 
course  Mr.  Esmond  did  not  allude  to  this  relationship.  The  Doctor 
scowled,  blushed,  and  was  much  confused,  and  said  scarce  a  word 
during  the  whole  of  dinner.  A  very  little  stone  will  sometimes 
knock  down  these  Goliaths  of  wit;  and  this  one  was  often  discom- 
fited when  met  by  a  man  of  any  spirit;  he  took  his  place  sulkily, 
put  water  in  his  wine  that  the  bthers  drank  plentifully,  and  scarce 
said  a  word. 

The  talk  was  about  the  affairs  of  the  day,  or  rather  about  per- 
sons than  affairs:  my  Lady  Marlborough's  fury,  her  daughters  in 
old  clothes  and  mob-caps  looking  out  from  their  windows  and  see- 
ing the  company  pass  to  the  Drawing-room ;  tiie  gentleman-usher's 
horror  when  the  Prince  of  Savoy  was  introduced  to  her  Majesty  in 
a  tie-wig,  no  man  out  of  a  full-bottomed  periwig  ever  having  kissed 
the  Royal  hand  before;  about  the  Moiiawks  and  the  damage  they 
were  doing,  rushing  through  tlie  town,  killing  and  murdering. 
Some  one  said   the  ill-omened  face  of  Mohun  had  been  seen  at  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  449 

theatre  the  night  before,  and  Macartne}'  and  Meredith  with  him. 
Meant  to  be  a  feast,  the  meeting,  in  spite  of  drink  and  talk,  was  as 
dismal  as  a  funeral.  Every  topic  started  subsided  into  gloom.  His 
Grace  of  Ormonde  went  away  because  the  conversation  got  upon 
Denain,  where  we  had  been  defeated  in  the  last  campaign. 
Esmond's  General  was  affected  at  the  allusion  to  this  action  too,  for 
his  comrade  of  Wynendael,  the  Count  of  Nassau  Woudenbourg,  had 
been  slain  there.  Mr.  Swift,  when  Esmond  pledged  him,  said  he 
drank  no  wine,  and  took  his  hat  from  the  peg  and  went  away, 
beckoning  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  to  follow  him ;  but  the  other  bade 
him  take  his  chariot  and  save  his  coach-hire — he  liad  to  speak  with 
Colonel  Esmond ;  and  when  the  rest  of  the  company  withdrew  to 
cards,  these  two  i*femained  behind  in  the  dark. 

Bolingbroke  always  spoke  freely  when  he  had  drunk  freely. 
His  enemies  could  get  any  secret  out  of  him  in  that  condition; 
women  were  even  employed  to  ply  him,  and  take  his  words  down. 
I  have  heard  that  my  Lord  Stair,  three  years  after,  when  the  Secre- 
tary fled  to  France  and  became  the  Pretender's  Minister,  got  all  the 
information  he  wanted  by  putting  female  spies  over  St.  John  in  his 
cups.  He  spoke  freely  now: — "Jonathan  knows  nothing  of  this  for 
certain,  though  he  suspects  it,  and  by  George,  Webb  will  take  an 
Archbishopric,  and  Jonathan  a — no, — damme — Jonathan  will  take 
an  Archbishopric  from  James,  I  warrant  me,  gladly  enough.  Your 
Duke  hath  the  string  of  the  whole  matter  in  his  hand,"  the  Secre- 
tary went  on.  "We  have  that  which  will  force  Marlborough  to 
keep  his  distance,  and  he  goes  out  of  London  in  a  fortnight.  Prior 
hath  his  business ;  he  left  me  this  morning,  and  mark  me,  Harry, 
should  fate  carry  off  our  august,  our  beloved,  our  most  gouty  and 
plethoric  Queen,  and  Defender  of  the  Faith,  la  bonne  cause  triom- 
phera.  A  la  sante  de  la  bonne  cause  1  Everything  good  comes 
from  France.  Wine  comes  from  France ;  give  us  another  bumper 
to  the  bonne  cause."     We  drank  it  together. 

"Will  the  bonne  cause  turn  Protestant?"  asked  Mr.  Esmond. 
"No,  hang  it, "says  the  other,  "he'll  defend  our  Faith  as  in  duty 
bound,   but  he'll  stick  by  his  own.     TJie  Hind  and  the  Panther 


450  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

shall  run  in  the  same  car,  by  Jove!  Righteousness  and  peace  shall 
kiss  each  other:  and  we'll  have  Father  Massillon  to  walk  down  the 
aisle  of  St  Paul's,  cheek  by  jowl  with  Dr.  Sacheverel.  Give  us 
more  wine:  here's  a  health  to  the  bonne  cause,  kneeling — damme, 
let's  drink  it  kneeling!"  Ke  was  quite  flushed  and  wild  with  wine 
as  he  was  talking. 

"And  suppose,"  says  Esmond,  who  always  had  this  gloomy 
apprehension,  "the  bonne  cause  should  give  us  up  to  the  Frencli,  as 
his  father  and  uncle  did  before  him?" 

"Give  us  up  to  the  French!"  starts  up  Bolingbroke:  "is  tliere 
any  English  gentleman  that  fears  that?  You  who  have  seen  Blen- 
heim and  Ramillies,  afraid  of  the  French!  Your  ancestors  and 
mine,  and  brave  old  Webb's  yonder,  have  met  them  in  a  hundred 
fields,  and  our  children  will  be  ready  to  do  the  like.  Who's  he  that 
wishes  for  more  men  from  England?  My  cousin  Westmoreland? 
Give  us  up  to  the  French,  pshaw!" 

"His  uncle  did,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"And  what  happened  to  his  grandfather?"  broke  out  S'c.  John, 
filling  out  another  bumper.  "Here's  to  the  greatest  monarch 
England  ever  saw;  here's  to  the  Englishman  that  made  a  kingdom 
of  her.  Our  great  King  came  from  Huntingdon,  not  Hanover ;  our 
fathers  didn't  look  for  a  Dutchman  to  rule  us.  Let  him  come  and 
we'll  keep  him,  and  we'll  show  him  Whitehall.  If  he's  a  traitor, 
let  us  have  him  here  to  deal  with  him;  and  then  there  are  spirits 
here  as  great  as  any  that  have  gone  before.  There  are  men  here 
that  can  look  at  danger  in  the  face  and  not  be  frightened  at  it. 
Traitor !  treason !  what  names  are  these  to  scare  you  and  me?  Are 
all  Oliver's  men  dead,  or  his  glorious  name  forgotten  in  fifty  years? 
Are  there  no  men  equal  to  him,  think  you,  as  good — ay,  as  goodv 
God  save  the  King!  and.  if  the  monarchy  fails  us,  God  save  the 
British  Republic!" 

He  filled  another  great  bumper,  and  tossed  it  up  and  drained  it 
wildly,  just  as  the  noise  of  rapid  carriage  wheels  approaching  was 
stopped  at  our  door,  and  after  a  hurried  knock  and  a  moment's 
interval,  Mr.  Swift  came  into  the  hall,  ran  upstairs  to  the  room  we 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  451 

were  dining  in,  and  entered  it  with  a  perturbed  face.  St.  John, 
excited  with  drink,  was  making  some  wild  quotation  out  of 
"Macbeth,"  bvit  Swift  stopped  him. 

"Drink  no  more,  my  Lord,  for  God's  sake!*'  says  he.  "I  come 
with  the  most  dreadful  news." 

"Is  the  Queen  dead?"  cries  out  Bolingbroke,  seizing  on  a  water- 
glass 

'  'No,  Duke  Hamilton  is  dead ,  he  was  murdered  an  hour  ago  by 
Mohun  and  Macartney;  they  had  a  quarrel  this  morning;  they  gave 
him  not  so  much  time  as  to  write  a  letter.  He  went  for  a  couple  of 
his  friends,  and  he  is  dead,  and  Mohun,  too,  the  bloody  villain,  who 
was  set  on  him.  They  fought  in  Hyde  Park  just  before  sunset; 
the  Duke  killed  Mohun,  and  Macartney  came  up  and  stabbed  him, 
and  the  dog  is  fled.  I  have  your  chariot  below;  send  to  every  jDart 
of  the  country  and  apprehend  that  villain;  come  to  the  Duke's 
house  and  see  if  any  life  be  left  in  him." 

*'0  Beatrix,  Beatrix,"  thought  Esmond,  "and  here  ends  my  poor 
girl's  ambition  l" 


CHAPTER  VI 

POOR  BEATRIX 

There  had  been  no  need  to  urge  upon  Esmond  the  necessity  of  a 
separation  between  him  and  Beatrix:  Fate  had  done  that  com- 
pletely; and  I  think  from  the  very  moment  poor  Beatrix  had 
accepted  the  Duke's  offer,  she  began  to  assume  the  majestic  air  of 
a  Duchess,  nay,  Queen  Elect,  and  to  carry  herself  as  one  sacred 
and  removed  from  us  ccmimon  people.  Her  mother  and  kinsman 
both  fell  into  her  ways,  the  latter  scornfully  perhaps,  and  uttering 
his  usual  gibes  at  her  vanity  and  his  own.  There  was  a  certain 
charm  about  this  girl  of  which  neither  Colonel  Esmond  nor  his 
fond  mistress  could  forego  the  fascination;  in  spite  of  her  faults 
and  her  pride  and  wilfulness,  they  were  forced  to  love  her;  and., 
indeed,  might  be  set  down  as  the  two  chief  flatterers  of  the  brilliant 
creature's  court. 

Who,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  hath  not  been  so  bewitched,  and 
worshipped  some  idol  or  another?  Years  after  this  passion  hath 
been  dead  and  buried,  along  with  a  thousand  other  worldly  cares 
and  ambitions,  he.  who  felt  it  can  recall  it  out  of  its  grave,  and 
admire,  almost  as  fondly  as  he  did  in  his  youth,  that  lovely  queenly 
creature.  I  invoke  that  beautiful  spirit  from  the  shades  and  love 
her  still;  or  rather  I  should  say  such  a  past  is  always  present  to  a 
man ;  such  a  passion  once  felt  forms  a  part  of  his  whole  being,  and 
cannot  be  separated  from  it ;  it  becomes  a  portion  of  the  man  of 
to-day,  just  as  any  great  faith  or  conviction,  the  discovery  of 
poetry,  the  awakening  of  religion,  ever  afterwards  influence  him ; 
just  as  the  wound  I  had  at  Blenheim,  and  of  which  I  wear  the  scai, 
hath  become  part  of  my  frame  and  influenced  my  whole  body,  nay, 
spirit  subsequently,  though  'twas  got  and  healed  forty  years  ago. 
Parting  and  forgetting  1    What  faithful  heart  can  do  these?    Our 

453 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  453 

great  thoughts,  our  great  affections,  the  Truths  of  our  life,  never 
leave  us.  Surely,  they  cannot  separate  from  our  consciousness; 
shall  follow  it  whithersoever  that  shall  go ;  and  are  of  their  nature 
divine  and  immortal. 

With  the  horrible  news  of  this  catastrophe,  which  was  con- 
firmed by  the  weeping  domestics  at  the  Duke's  own  door,  Esmond 
rode  liomewards  as  quick  as  his  lazy  coach  would  carry  him,  devis- 
ing all  the  time  how  he  should  break  the  intelligence  to  the  person 
most  concerned  in  it ;  and  if  a  satire  upon  human  vanity  could  be 
needed,  that  poor  soul  afforded  it  in  the  altered  company  and  occu- 
pations in  which  Esmond  found  her.  For  days  before,  her  chariot 
had  been  rolling  the  street  from  mercer  to  toyshop — from  gold- 
smith to  laceman :  her  taste  was  perfect,  or  at  least  the  fond  bride- 
groom had  thought  so,  and  had  given  her  entire  authority  over  all 
tradesmen,  and  for  all  the  plate,  furniture,  and  equipages,  with 
which  his  Grace  the  Ambassador  wished  to  adorn  his  splendid 
mission.  She  must  have  her  picture  by  Kneller,  a  duchess  not 
being  complete  without  a  portrait,  and  a  noble  one  he  made,  and 
actually  sketched  in,  on  a  cushion,  a  coronet  which  she  was  about 
to  wear.  She  vowed  she  would  wear  it  at  King  James  the  Third's 
coronation,  and  never  a  princess  in  the  land  would  have  become 
ermine  better.  Esmond  found  the  ante-chamber  crowded  with 
milliners,  and  toyshop  women,  obsequious  goldsmiths  with  jewels, 
salvers,  and  tankards;  and  mercers'  men  with  hangings,  and 
velvets,  and  brocades.  My  Lady  Duchess  elect  was  giving  audi- 
ence to  one  famous  silversmith  from  Exeter  Change,  who  brought 
with  him  a  great  chased  salver,  of  which  he  was  i^ointing  out  the 
beauties  as  Colonel  Esmond  entered.  "Come,"  says  she,  "cousin, 
and  admire  the  taste  of  this  pretty  thing."  I  think  Mars  and 
Venus  were  lying  in  the  golden  bower,  that  one  gilt  Cupid  carried 
off  the  war-god's  casque — another  his  sword — another  his  great 
buckler,  upon  which  my  Lord  Duke  Hamilton's  arms  with  ours 
were  to  be  engraved — and  a  fourth  was  kneeling  down  to  the 
reclining  goddess  with  the  ducal  coronet  in  her  hands,  God  help  us! 
The  next  time  Mr.  Esmond  saw  that  piece  of  plate,  the  arms  were 


454  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

changed:  the  ducal  coronet  had  been  replaced  by  a  viscount "s:  it 
formed  part  of  the  fortune  of  the  thrifty  goldsmith's  own  daughter, 
vhen  she  married  my  Lord  Viscount  Squanderfield  two  years  after. 

"Isn't  this  a  beautiful  piece?"  says  Beatrix,  examining  it,  and 
«;he  pointed  out  the  arch  graces  of  the  Cupids,  and  the  fine  carving 
of  the  languid  prostrate  Mars.  Esmond  sickened  as  he  thought  of 
the  warrior  dead  in  his  chamber,  his  servants  and  children  weeping 
around  him;  and  of  this  smiling  creature  attiring  herself,  as  it 
were,  for  that  nuptial  deathbed.  "  'Tis  a  pretty  piece  of  vanity," 
says  he,  looking  gloomily  at  the  beautiful  creature:  there  were 
flambeaux  in  the  room  lighting  up  the  brilliant  mistress  of  it. 
She  lifted  up  the  great  gold  salver  with  her  fair  arms. 

"Vanity!"  says  she  haughtily.  ""What  is  vanity  in  you,  sir,  is 
propriety  in  me.  You  ask  a  Jewish  price  for  it,  Mr.  Graves;  but 
have  it  I  will,  if  only  to  spite  Mr.  Esmond." 

"O  Beatrix,  lay  it  down!"  says  Mr.  Esmond.  "Herodias!  you 
know  not  what  you  carry  in  the  charger." 

She  dropped  it  with  a  clang;  the  eager  goldsmith  running  to 
seize  his  fallen  ware.  The  lady's  face  caught  the  fright  from 
Esmond's  pale  countenance,  and  her  eyes  shone  out  like  beacons  of 
alarm. — "What  is  it,  Henry?"  says  she,  running  to  him,  and  seizing 
both  his  hands.  "What  do  you  mean  by  your  pale  face  and  gloomy 
tones?" 

"Come  away,  come  away!"  says  Esmond,  leading  her:  she  clung 
frightened  to  him,  and  he  supported  her  upon  his  heart,  bidding 
the  scared  goldsmith  leave  them.  The  man  went  into  the  next 
apartment,  staring  with  surprise,  and  hugging  his  precious  charger. 

"Oh,  my  Beatrix,  my  sister!"  says  -Esmond,  still  holding  in  his 
arms  the  pallid  and  affrighted  creature,  "you  have  the  greatest 
courage  of  any  woman  in  the  world ;  prepare  to  show  it  now,  for 
you  have  a  dreadful  trial  to  bear. " 

She  sprang  away  from  the  friend  who  would  have  protected 
her: — "Hath  he  left  me?"  .says  she.  "We  had  words  this  morning: 
he  was  very  gloomy,  and  I  angered  him:  but  he  dared  not,  he  dared 
not!"     As  she  spoke  a  burning  blush  fliislierl  over  her  whole  face 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  455 

and  bosom.  Esmond  saw  it  reflected  in  the  glass  by  which  she 
stood,  with  clenched  hands,  pressing  her  swelling  heart. 

"He  has  left  you,"  says  Esmond,  wondering  that  rage  rather 
than  sorrow  was  in  her  looks. 

"iVnd  he  is  alive,''  cries  Beatrix,  'and  you  bring  me  this  com- 
mission! He  has  left  me,  and  you  haven't  dared  to  avenge  me! 
You,  that  pretend  to  be  the  champion  of  our  house,  have  let  me 
suffer  this  insult!    Where  is  Castlewood?    I  will  go  to  my  brother." 

"The  Duke  is  not  alive,  Beatrix,"  said  Esmond. 

Siie  looked  at  her  cousin  wildly,  and  fell  back  to  the  wall  as 
though  shot  in  the  breast: — "And  you  come  here,  and — and — you 
killed  him?" 

"No;  thank  Heaven!"  her  kinsman  said.  "The  blood  of  that 
noble  heart  doth  not  stain  my  sword!  In  its  last  hour  it  was  faith- 
ful to  thee,  Beatrix  Esmond.  Vain  and  cruel  woman !  kneel  and 
thank  the  awful  Heaven  whicli  awards  life  and  death,  and  chas- 
tises pride,  that  the  noble  Hamilton  died  true  to  you;  at  least  that 
'twas  not  your  quarrel,  or  your  pride,  or  your  wicked  vanity,  that 
drove  him  to  his  fate.  He  died  by  the  bloody  sword  which  already 
had  drunk  your  own  father's  blood.  O  woman,  O  sister !  to  that 
sad  field  where  two  corpses  are  lying — for  the  murderer  died  too  by 
the  hand  of  the  man  he  slew — can  you  bring  no  mourners  but  your 
revenge  and  your  vanity?  God  help  and  pardon  thee,  Beatrix,  as 
He  brings  this  awful  punishment  to  your  hard  and  rebellious 
heart." 

Esmond  had  scarce  done  speaking,  when  his  mistress  came  in. 
The  colloquy  between  him  and  Beatrix  had  lasted  but  a  few 
minutes,  during  which  time  Esmond's  servant  had  carried  the  dis- 
astrous news  through  the  household.  The  army  of  Vanity  Fair, 
waiting  without,  gathered  up  all  their  fripperies  and  fled  aghast. 
Tender  Lady  Castlewood  had  been  in  talk  above  with  Dean  Atter- 
bury,  the  pious  creature's  almoner  and  director ;  and  the  Dean  had 
entered  with  her  as  a  physician  whose  place  was  at  a  sick-bed. 
Beatrix's  mother  looked  at  Esmond  and  ran  towards  her  daughter, 
with  a  pale  face  and  oj^en  heart  and  hands,  all  kindness  and  pity. 


456  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

But  Beatrix  passed  her  by,  nor  would  she  have  any  of  the  medica- 
ments of  the  spiritual  physician.  "I  am  best  in  my  own  room  and 
by  myself,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  were  quite  dry;  nor  did  Esmond 
ever  see  them  otherwise  save  once,  in  respect  to  that  grief.  She 
gave  him  a  cold  hand  as  she  went  out:  "Thank  you,  brother,"  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  w^ith  a  simplicity  more  touching  than 
tears;  "all  you  have  said  is  true  and  kind,  and  I  will  go  away  and 
ask  jyardon."  The  three  others  remained  behind,  and  talked  over 
the  dreadful  story.  It  affected  Doctor  Atterbury  more  even  than 
us,  as  it  seemed.  The  death  of  Mohun,  her  husband's  murderer, 
was  more  awful  to  my  mistress  than  even  the  Duke's  unhappy  end. 
Esmond  gave  at  length  what  particulars  he  knew  of  their  quarrel, 
and  the  cause  of  it.  The  tv/o  noblemen  had  long  been  at  war  with 
respect  to  the  Lord  Gerard's  property,  whose  two  daughters  my 
Lord  Duke  and  Mohun  had  married.  They  had  met  by  appoint- 
ment that  day  at  the  lawyer's  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields;  liad  words 
which,  though  they  appeared  very  trifling  to  those  who  heard 
them,  were  not  so  to  men  exasperated  by  long  and  previous  enmity. 
Mohun  asked  my  Lord  Duke  where  he  could  see  his  Grace's 
friends,  and  within  an  hour  had  sent  two  of  his  own  to  arrange 
this  deadly  duel.  It  was  pursued  with  such  fierceness,  and  sprang 
from  so  trifling  a  cause,  that  all  men  agreed  at  the  time  that  there 
was  a  party,  of  which  these  three  notorious  brawlers  were  but 
agents,  who  desired  to  take  Duke  Hamilton's  life  away.  They 
fought  three  on  a  side,  as  in  that  tragic  meeting  twelve  years  back 
which  hath  been  recounted  already,  and  in  which  Mohun  per- 
formed his  second  murder.  They  rushed  in,  and  closed  upon  each 
other  at  once  without  any  feints  or  crossing  of  swords  even  and 
stabbed  one  at  the  other  desperately,  each  receiving  many  wounds, 
and  Mohun  having  his  death-wound,  and  my  Lord  Duke  lying  by 
him.  Macartney  came  up  and  stabbed  his  Grace  as  he  lay  on  the 
ground,  and  gave  him  the  blow  of  which  he  died.  Colonel  Macart- 
ney denied  this,  of  which  the  horror  and  indignation  of  the  whole 
kingdom  would  nevertheless  have  him  guilty,  and  fled  the  coun- 
try, whither  he  never  returned. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  457 

What  was  the  real  cause  of  the  Duke  Hamilton's  death? — a 
paltry  quarrel  that  might  easily  have  been  made  up,  and  with  a 
ruffian  so  low,  base,  profligate,  and  degraded  with  former  crimes 
and  repeated  murders,  that  a  man  of  such  renown  and  princely 
rank  as  my  Lord  Duke  might  have  disdained  to  sully  his  sword 
with  the  blood  of  such  a  villain.  But  his  spirit  was  so  high  that 
those  who  wished  his  death  knew  that  his  courage  was  like  his 
charity,  and  never  turned  any  man  away;  and  he  died  by  the  hands 
of  Mohun,  and  the  other  two  cut-throats  that  were  set  on  him. 
The  Queen's  Ambassador  to  Paris  died,  the  loyal  and  devoted 
servant  of  the  House  of  Stuart,  and  a  Royal  Prince  of  Scotland 
himself,  and  carrying  the  confidence,  the  repentance  of  Queen 
Anne  along  with  his  own  open  devotion,  and  the  good-will  of 
millions  in  the  country  more,  to  the  Queen's  exiled  brother  and 
sovereign. 

That  party  to  which  Lord  Mohun  belonged  had  the  benefit  of  his 
service,  and  now  were  well  rid  of  such  a  ruffian.  He,  and  Mere- 
dith, and  Macartney,  were  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  men;  and 
the  two  colonels  had  been  broke  but  the  year  before  for  drinking 
perdition  to  the  Tories.  His  Grace  was  a  Whig  now  and  a  Hano- 
verian, and  as  eager  for  war  as  Prince  Eugene  himself.  I  say  not 
that  he  was  privy  to  Duke  Hamilton's  death:  I  say  that  his  party 
profited  by  it;  and  that  three  desperate  and  bloody  instruments 
were  found  to  effect  that  murder. 

As  Esmond  and  the  Dean  walked  away  from  Kensington  dis- 
coursing of  this  tragedy,  and  how  fatal  it  was  to  the  cause  which 
they  both  had  at  heart,  the  street-criers  were  already  out  with 
their  broadsides,  shouting  through  the  town  the  full,  true,  and  hor- 
rible account  of  the  death  of  Lord  Mohun  and  Duke  Hamilton  in  a 
duel.  A  fellow  had  got  to  Kensington  and  was  crying  it  in  the 
square  there  at  very  early  morning,  when  Mr.  Esmond  happened  to 
pass  by.  He  drove  the  man  from  under  Beatrix's  very  window, 
I  whereof  the  casement  had  been  set  open.  The  sun  was  shining 
though  'twas  November :  he  had  seen  the  market-carts  rolling  into 
London,  the  guard  relieved  at  the  palace,  the  labourers  trudgmg  to 


458  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

their  work  ia  the  gardens  between  Kensington  and  the  City — the 
wandering  merchants  and  hawkers  filling  the  air  with  their  cries. 
The  world  was  going  to  its  business  again,  although  dukes  lay  dead 
and  ladies  mourned  for  them;  and  kings,  very  likely,  lost  their 
chances.  So  night  and  day  pass  away,  and  to-morrow  comes,  and 
our  place  knows  us  not.  Esmond  thought  of  the  courier,  now  gal- 
loping on  the  North  road  to  inform  him,  who  was  Earl  of  Arran 
yesterday,  that  he  was  Duke  of  Hamilton  to-day,  and  of  a  thousand 
great  schemes,  hopes,  ambitions,  that  were  alive  in  the  gallant 
heart,  beating  a  few  hours  since,  and  now  in  a  little  dust  quiescent. 


CHAPTER  VII 

I  VISIT   CASTLEWOOD   ONCE  MORE 

Thus,  for  a  third  time,  Beatrix's  ambitious  hopes  y^re  circum- 
vented, and  she  might  well  believe  that  a  special  malignant  fate 
watched  and  pursued  her,  tearing  her  prize  out  of  her  hand  just  as 
she  seemed  to  grasp  it,  and  leaving  her  with  only  rage  and  grief  for 
her  portion.  Whatever  her  feelings  might  have  been  of  anger  or 
of  sorrow  (and  I  fear  me  that  the  former  emotion  was  that  which 
most  tore  her  heart),  she  would  take  no  confidant,  as  people  of 
softer  natures  would  have  done  under  such  a  calamity ;  her  mother 
and  her  kinsman  knew  that  she  would  disdain  their  pity,  and  that 
to  offer  it  would  be  but  to  infuriate  the  cruel  wound  which  fortune 
had  inflicted.  We  knew  that  her  pride  was  awfully  humbled  and 
punished  by  this  sudden  and  terrible  blow ;  she  wanted  no  teaching 
of  ours  to  point  out  the  sad  moral  of  her  story.  Her  fond  mother 
could  give  but  her  prayers,  and  her  kinsman  his  faithful  friendship 
and  patience  to  the  unhappy,  stricken  creature;  and  it  was  only  by 
hints,  and  a  word  or  two  uttered  months  afterwards,  that  Beatrix 
showed  she  understood  their  silent  commiseration,  and  on  her  part 
was  secretly  thankful  for  their  forbearance.  The  people  about  the 
Court  said  there  was  that  in  her  manner  which  frightened  away 
scoffing  and  condolence:  she  was  above  their  triumph  and  their 
pit}^  and  acted  her  part  in  that  dreadful  tragedy  greatly  and  cour- 
ageously;  so  that  those  who  liked  her  least  were  yet  forced  to 
admire  her.  We,  who  watched  her  after  her  disaster,  could  not 
but  respect  the  indomitable  courage  and  majestic  calm  with  whic/i 
she  bore  it.  "I  would  rather  see  her  tears  than  her  pride, "  her 
mother  said,  who  was  accustomed  to  bear  her  sorrows  in  a  very 
different  way,  and  to  receive  them  as  the  stroke  of  God,  with  an 
awful  submission  and  meekness.     But  Beatrix's  nature  was  differ- 

459 


460  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

ent  to  that  tender  parent's;  she  seemed  to  accept  her  grief,  and  to 
defy  it;  nor  would  she  allow  it  (I  believe  not  even  in  private  and  in 
her  own  chamber)  to  extort  from  her  the  confession  of  even  a  tear 
of  humiliation  or  a  cry  of  pain.  Friends  and  children  of  our  race, 
who  come  after  me,  in  which  way  will  you  bear  your  trials?  I 
know  one  that  prays  God  will  give  you  love  rather  than  pride,  and 
tliat  the  Eye  all-seeing  shall  find  you  in  the  humble  place.  Not 
that  we  should  judge  proud  spirits  otherwise  than  charitably.  'Tii 
nature  hath  fashioned  some  for  ambition  and  dominion,  as  it  hath 
formed  others  for  obedience  and  gentle  submission.  The  leopard 
follows  her  nature  as  the  lamb  does,  and  acts  after  leopard  law ;  she 
can  neither  help  her  beauty,  nor  her  courage,  nor  her  cruelty;  nor 
a  single  spot  on  her  shining  coat ,  nor  the  conquering  spirit  which 
impels  her ;  nor  the  shot  which  brings  her  down. 

During  that  well-founded  panic  the  Whigs  had,  lest  the  Queen 
should  forsake  their  Hanoverian  Prince,  bound  by  oaths  and 
treaties  as  she  was  to  him,  and  recall  her  brother,  who  was  allied  to 
her  by  yet  stronger  ties  of  nature  and  duty, — the  Prince  of  Savoy, 
and  the  boldest  of  that  party  of  the  Whigs,  were  for  bringing  the 
young  Duke  of  Cambridge  over,  in  spite  of  the  Queen,  and  the  out- 
cry of  her  Tory  servants,  arguing  that  the  Electoral  Prince,  a  Peer 
and  Prince  of  the  Blood-Royal  of  this  Realm  too,  and  in  the  line  of 
succession  to  the  crown,  Jiad  a  right  to  sit  in  the  Parliament 
whereof  he  was  a  member,  and  to  dwell  in  the  country  which  he 
one  day  was  to  govern.  Nothing  but  the  strongest  ill-will  expressed 
by  the  Queen,  and  the  people  about  her,  and  menaces  of  the  Royal 
resentment,  should  this  scheme  be  persisted  in,  prevented  it  from 
being  carried  into  effect. 

The  boldest  on  our  side  were,  in  like  manner,  for  having  our 
Prince  into  the  country.  The  undoubted  inheritor  of  the  right 
divine;  the  feelings  of  more  than  half  the  nation,  of  almost  all  the 
clergy,  of  the  gentry  of  England  and  Scotland  with  him ;  entirely 
innocent  of  the  crime  for  which  his  father  suffered — brave,  young, 
handsome,  unfortunate — who  in  England  would  dare  to  molest  the 
Prince  should  he  come  among  us,  and  fling  himself  upon  British 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  461 

generosity,  hospitality,  and  honour?  An  invader  with  an  army  of 
Frenchmen  behind  him.  Englishmen  of  spirit  would  resist  to  the 
death,  and  drive  back  to  the  shores  whence  he  came ;  but  a  Prince, 
alone,  armed  with  his  right  only,  and  relying  on  the  loyalty  of  his 
people,  was  sure,  many  of  liis  friends  argued,  of  welcome,  at  least 
of  safety,  among  us.  The  hand  of  his  sister  the  Queen,  of  the 
people  his  subjects,  never  could  be  raised  to  do  him  a  wrong.  But 
the  Queen  was  timid  by  na.ture,  and  the  successive  Ministers  she  had, 
had  private  causes  for  their  irresolution.  The  bolder  and  honester 
men,  who  had  at  heart  the  illustrious  young  exile's  cause,  had  no 
scheme  of  interest  of  their  own  to  prevent  them  from  seeing  the 
right  done,  and,  provided  only  he  came  as  an  Englishman,  were 
ready  to  venture  their  all  to  welcome  and  defend  him. 

St.  John  and  Harley  both  had  kind  words  in  plenty  for  the 
Prince's  adherents,  and  gave  him  endless  promises  of  future  sup- 
port ;  but  hints  and  promises  were  all  they  could  be  got  to  give  j 
and  some  of  his  friends  were  for  measures  much  bolder,  more 
efficacious,  and  more  open.  With  a  party  of  these,  some  of  whom 
are  yet  alive,  and  some  whose  names  Mr.  Esmond  has  no  right  to 
mention,  he  found  himself  engaged  the  year  after  that  miserable 
death  of  Duke  Hamilton,  which  deprived  the  Prince  of  his  most 
courageous  ally  in  this  country.  Dean  Atterbury  was  one  of  the 
friends  whom  Esmond  may  mention,  as  the  brave  bishop  is  now 
beyond  exile  and  persecution,  and  to  him,  and  one  or  two  more, 
the  Colonel  opened  himself  of  a  scheme  of  his  own,  that,  backed  by 
a  little  resolution  on  the  Prince's  part,  could  not  fail  of  bringing 
about  the  accomplishment  of  their  dearest  wishes. 

My  young  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood  had  not  come  to  England 
to  keep  his  majority,  and  had  now  been  absent  from  the  country 
for  several  years.  The  year  when  his  sister  was  to  be  married  and 
Duke  Hamilton  died,  my  Lord  was  kept  at  Bruxelles  by  his  wife's 
lying-in.  The  gentle  Clotilda  could  not  bear  her  husband  out  of 
her  sight ;  perhaps  she  mistrusted  the  young  scapegrace  should  he 
ever  -get  loose  from  her  leading-strings;  and  she  kept  him  by  her 
side  to  nurse  the  baby  and  administer  posset  to  the  gossips.     Many 


4G2  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESxMOND 

a  laugli  poor  Beatrix  had  had  about  Frank's  uxoriousness:  his 
mother  woukl  have  gone  to  Clotilda  when  her  time  was  coming, 
lut  that  the  mother-in-law  was  already  in  possession,  and  the  nego- 
tiations for  poor  Beatrix's  marriage  were  begmi.  A  few  months 
after  the  horrid  catastrophe  in  Hyde  Park,  my  mistress  and  her 
daughter  retired  to  Castlewood,  where  my  Lord,  it  was  expected, 
would  soon  join  them.  But,  to  say  truth,  their  quiet  household 
was  little  to  his  taste;  he  could  be  got  to  come  to  Walcote  but  once 
after  his  first  campaign;  and  then  the  young  rogue  spent  more 
than  half  his  time  in  London,  not  appearing  at  Court  or  in  public 
under  his  own  name  and  title,  but  frequenting  plays,  bagnios,  and 
the  very  worst  company,  under  the  name  of  Captain  Esmond 
(whereby  his  innocent  kinsman  got  more  than  once  into  trouble) ; 
and  so  under  various  pretexts,  and  in  pursuit  of  all  sorts  of  pleas- 
ures, until  he  plunged  into  the  lawful  one  of  marriage,  Frank 
Castlewood  had  remained  away  from  this  country  and  was 
unknown,  save  amongst  the  gentlemen  of  the  army,  with  whom  he 
had  served  abroad.  The  fond  heart  of  his  mother  was  pained  by 
this  long  absence.  'Tvvas  all  that  Henry  Esmond  could  do  to 
soothe  her  natural  mortification,  and  find  excuses  for  his  kinsman's 
levity. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1713,  Lord  Castlewood  thought  of 
returning  home.  His  first  child  had  been  a  daughter;  Clotilda  was 
in  the  way  of  gratifying  his  Lordship  with  a  second,  and  the  pious  | 
youth  thought  that,  by  bringing  his  wife  to  his  ancestral  home,  by 
prayers  to  St.  Philip  of  Castlewood,  and  what  not.  Heaven  might 
be  induced  to  bless  him  with  a  son  this  time,  for  whose  coming  the 
expectant  mamma  was  very  anxious. 

The  long-debated  peace  had  been  proclaimed  this  year  at  the 
end  of  March;  and  France  was  open  to  us.  Just  as  Frank's  poor 
mother  had  made  all  things  ready  for  Lord  Castlewood's  reception, 
and  was  eagerly  expecting  her  son,  it  was  by  Colonel  Esmond's 
means  that  the  kind  lady  was  disappointed  of  her  longing,  and 
obliged  to  defer  once  more  the  darling  hope  of  her  heart. 

Esmond  took  horses  to  Castlewood.     He  had  not  seen  its  ancieni:. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  463 

grey  towers  and  well-reiuembered  ^Yonds  for  nearl}^  fourteen  years, 
and  since  he  rode  thence  with  my  Lord,  to  whom  his  mistress  with 
her  young  children  by  iier  side  waved  an  adieu.  What  ages  seemed 
to  have  passed  since  then,  wdiat  years  of  action  and  passion,  of  care, 
love,  hope,  disaster!  The  children  were  grown  up  now,  and  had 
stories  of  their  own.  As  for  Esmond,  he  felt  to  be  a  hundred  years 
old ;  his  dear  mistress  only  seemed  unchanged ;  she  looked  and 
welcomed  him  quite  as  of  old.  There  was  the  fountain  in  the 
court  babbling  its  familiar  music,  the  old  hall  and  its  furniture, 
the  carved  chair  my  late  lord  used,  the  very  flagon  he  drank  from. 
Esmond's  mistress  knew  he  would  like  to  sleep  in  the  little  room 
he  used  to  occupy;  "twas  made  ready  for  him,  and  wallflowers  and 
sweet  herbs  set  in  the  adjoining  chamber,  the  chaplain's  room. 

In  tears  of  not  unmanly  emotion,  with  prayers  of  submission  to 
the  awful  Dispenser  of  death  and  life,  of  good  and  evil  fortune,  Mr. 
Esmond  passed  a  part  of  that  first  night  at  Castlewood,  lying 
awake  for  many  hours  as  the  clock  kept  tolling  (in  tones  so  well 
remembered) ,  looking  back,  as  all  men  will,  that  revisit  their  home 
of  childhood,  over  the  great  gulf  of  time,  and  surveying  himself  on 
the  distant  bank  yonder,  a  sad  little  melancholy  boy  with  his  lord 
still  alive — his  dear  mistress,  a  girl  yet,  her  children  sporting 
around  her.  Years  ago,  a  boy  on  that  very  bed,  when  she  had 
blessed  him  and  called  him  her  knight,  he  had  made  a  vow  to  be 
faithful  and  never  desert  her  dear  service.  Had  he  kept  that  fond 
boyish  promise?  Yes,  before  Heaven ;  yes,  j^raise  be  to  God !  His 
life  had  been  hers;  his  blood,  his  fortune,  his  name,  his  whole 
heart  ever  since  had  been  hers  and  her  children's.  All  night  long 
he  was  dreaming  his  boyhood  over  again,  and  waking  fitfully ;  he 
half  fancied  he  heard  Father  Holt  calling  to  him  from  the  next 
chamber,  and  that  he  was  coming  in  and  out  from  the  mysterious 
window. 

Esmond  rose  up  before  the  dawn,  passed  into  the  next  room, 
wliere  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  odour  of  the  wallflowers;  looked 
into  the  brazier  where  the  papers  had  been  burnt,  into  the  old 
presses  where  Holt's  books  and  papers  had  been  kept,  and  tried  the 


464  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

spring  and  whether  the  window  worked  still.  The  spring  had  not 
been  touched  for  years,  but  yielded  at  length,  and  the  whole  fabric 
of  the  window  sank  down.  He  lifted  it  and  it  relapsed  into  its 
frame;  no  one  had  ever  passed  thence  since  Holt  used  it  sixteen 
years  ago. 

Esmond  remembered  his  poor  lord  saying,  on  the  last  day  of  his 
life,  that  Holt  used  to  come  in  and  out  of  the  house  like  a  ghost, 
and  knew  that  the  Father  liked  these  mysteries,  and  practised 
such  secret  disguises,  entrances  and  exits :  this  was  the  way  the 
ghost  came  and  w^ent,  his  pupil  had  always  conjectured.  Esmond 
closed  the  casement  up  again  as  the  dawn  was  rising  over  Castle- 
wood  village ;  he  could  hear  the  clinking  at  the  blacksmith's  forge 
yonder  among  the  trees,  across  the  green,  and  past  the  river,  on 
which  a  mist  still  lay  sleeping. 

Next  Esmond  opened  that  long  cupboard  over  the  woodwork  of 
the  mantelpiece,  big  enough  to  hold  a  man,  and  in  which  Mr.  Holt 
used  to  keep  sundry  secret  properties  of  his.  The  two  swords  he 
remembered  so  well  as  a  boy  lay  actually  there  still,  and  Esmond 
took  them  out  and  wiped  them,  with  a  strange  curiosity  of  emo- 
tion. There  were  a  bundle  of  papers  here,  too,  which  no  doubt  had 
been  left  at  Holt's  last  visit  to  the  place,  in  my  Lord  Viscount's 
life,  that  very  day  when  the  priest  had  been  arrested  and  taken  to 
Hexham  Castle.  Esmond  made  free  with  these  papers,  and  found 
treasonable  matter  of  King  William's  reign,  the  names  of  Charnock 
and  Perkins,  Sir  John  Fenwick  and  Sir  John  Friend,  Rookwood  and 
Lodwick,  Lords  Montgomery  and  Ailesburj',  Clarendon  and  Yar- 
mouth, that  had  all  been  engaged  in  plots  against  the  usurper; 
a  letter  from  the  Duke  of  Berwick  too,  and  one  from  the  King 
at  St.  Germains,  offering  to  confer  upon  his  trusty  and  well- 
beloved  Francis,  Viscount  Castlewood.  the  titles  of  Earl  and  Marquis 
of  Esmond,  bestowed  by  patent  royal,  and  in  the  fourth  j^ear  of 
his  reign,  upon  Thomas,  Viscount  Castlewood,  and  the  heirs-male 
of  his  body,  in  default  of  which  issue  the  ranks  and  dignities  were 
to  pass  to  Francis  aforesaid. 

This  was  the  paper,  whereof  my  Lord  had  spoken,  which  Holt 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  465 

showed  him  the  very  day  he  was  arrested,  and  for  an  answer  to 
which  he  would  come  back  in  a  week's  time.  I  put  these  papers 
hastily  into  the  crypt  wiience  I  had  taken  them,  being  interrupted 
by  a  tapping  of  a  light  finger  at  the  ring  of  the  chamber-door: 
■'twas  my  kind  mistress,  with  her  face  full  of  love  and  welcome. 
She,  too,  had  passed  the  night  wakefully  no  doubt:  but  neither 
asked  the  other  how  the  hours  had  been  spent.  There  are  things 
I  we  divine  without  speaking,  and  know  though  they  happen  out  of 
our  sight.  This  fond  lady  hath  told  me  that  she  knew  both  days 
when  I  was  wounded  abroad.  Who  shall  say  how  far  sympathy 
reaches,  and  how  truly  love  can  prophesy?  "I  looked  into  your 
room,''  was  all  she  said;  "the  bed  was  vacant,  the  little  old  bed! 
I  knew  I  should  find  you  here."  And  tender  and  blushing  faintly, 
with  a  benediction  in  her  eyes,  the  gentle  creature  kissed  him. 

They  walked  out,  hand-in-hand,  through  the  old  court,  and  to 
the  terrace-walk,  where  the  grass  was  glistening  with  dew,  and  the 
birds  in  the    green    woods  above  were    singing    their    delicious 
choruses  under  the  blushing  morning  sky.     How  well  all  things 
were  remembered!    The  ancient  towers  and  gables  of  the  Hall 
darkling  against  the  east,  the  purple  shadows  on  the  green  slopes, 
the  quaint  devices  and  carvings  of  the  dial,  the  forest-crowned 
heights,  the  fair  yellow  plain  cheerful  with  crops  and  corn,  the 
shining  river  rolling  through  it  towards  the  pearly  hills  beyond ;  all 
these  were  before  us,  along  with  a  thousand  beautiful  memories  of 
our  youth,  beautiful  and  sad,  but  as  real  and  vivid  in  our  minds  as 
that  fair  and  always-remembered  scene  our  eyes  beheld  once  raore. 
We  forget  nothing.     The  memory  sleeps,  but  wakens  again ;  I 
1  often  think  how  it  shall  be  when,  after  the  last  sleep  of  death,  the 
\reveillee  shall  arouse  us  for  ever,  and  the  past  in  one  flash  of  self- 
consciousness  rush  back,  like  the  soul  revivified. 
I       The  house  would  not  be  up  for  some  hours  yet  (it  was  July,  and 
the  dawn  was  only  just  awake),  and  here  Esmond  opened  himself 
,to  his  mistress  of  the  business  he  had  in  hand,  and  what  part  Frank 
j  was  to  play  in  it.     He  knew  he  could  confide  anything  to  her,  and 
that  the  fond  soul  would  die  rather  than  reveal  it;  and  bidding  her 


466  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

keep  the  secret  from  all,  he  laid  it  entirely  before  his  mistress 
(always  as  staunch  a  little  loyalist  as  any  in  the  kingdom),  and 
indeed  was  quite  sure  that  any  plan  of  his  was  secure  of  her 
applause  and  sympathy.  Never  was  such  a  glorious  scheme  to  her 
partial  mind,  never  such  a  devoted  knight  to  execute  it.  An  hour 
or  two  may  have  passed  whilst  they  were  having  their  colloquy. 
Beatrix  came  out  to  them  just  as  their  talk  was  over;  her  tall 
beautiful  form  robed  in  sable  (which  she  wore  without  ostentation 
ever  since  last  year's  catastrophe),  sweeping  over  the  green  terrace, 
and  casting  its  shadows  before  her  across  the  grass. 

She  made  us  one  of  her  grand  curtseys  smiling,  and  called  us 
"the  young  people."  She  was  older,  paler,  and  more  majestic  than 
in  the  j-ear  before;  her  mother  seemed  the  younger  of  the  two. 
She  never  once  spoke  of  her  grief.  Lady  Castle  wood  told  Esmond, 
or  alluded,  save  by  a  quiet  word  or  two,  to  the  death  of  her  hopes. 

When  Beatrix  came  back  to  Castlewood  she  took  to  visiting  all 
the  cottages  and  all  the  sick.  She  set  up  a  school  of  children,  and 
taught  singing  to  some  of  them.  "We  had  a  pair  of  beautiful  old 
organs  in  Castlewood  Church,  on  which  she  played  admirably,  so 
that  the  music  there  became  to  be  known  in  the  country  for  many 
miles  round,  and  no  doubt  people  came  to  see  the  fair  organist  as 
well  as  to  hear  her.  Parson  Tusher  and  his  wife  were  established 
at  the  vicarage,  but  his  wife  had  brought  him  no  children  where- 
with Tom  might  meet  his  enemies  at  the  gate.  Honest  Tom  took 
care  not  to  have  many  such,  his  great  shovel-hat  was  in  his  hand 
for  everybody.  He  was  profuse  of  bows  and  compliments.  He 
behaved  to  Esmond  as  if  the  Colonel  had  been  a  Commander-in- 
Chief ;  he  dined  at  the  Hall  that  day,  being  Sunday,  and  would  not 
partake  of  pudding  except  under  extreme  pressure.  He  deplored 
my  Lord's  perversion,  but  drank  his  Lordship's  liealth  very 
devoutly;  and  an  hour  before  at  church  sent  the  Colonel  to  sleep, 
with  a  long,  learned,  and  refreshing  sermon. 

Esmond's  visit  home  was  but  for  two  days;  the  business  he  had 
in  hand  calling  him  away  and  out  of  the  country.  Ere  he  w^ent,  he 
saw  Beatrix  but  once  alone,  and  then  she  summoned  him  out  of  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  467 

long  tapestry  room,  where  lie  and  his  mistress  were  sitting,  quite  as 
in  old  times,  into  the  adjoining  chamber,  that  had  been  Viscountess 
Isabel's  sleeping  apartment,  and  where  Esmond  perfectly  well 
remembered  seeing  the  old  lady  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  in  her  night- 
rail,  that  morning  when  the  troop  of  guard  came  to  fetch  her.  The 
most  beautiful  woman  in  England  lay  in  that  bed  now,  whereof  the 
great  damask  hangings  were  scarce  faded  since  Esmond  saw  them 
last. 

Here  stood  Beatrix  in  her  black  robes,  holding  a  box  in  her 
hand;  'twas  that  which  Esmond  had  given  her  before  her  mar- 
riage, stamped  with  a  coronet  which  the  disappointed  girl  was 
never  to  wear;  and  containing  his  aunt's  legacy  of  diamonds. 

''You  had  best  take  these  with  you,  Harry,"  says  she;  "I  have 
no  need  of  diamonds  any  more."  There  was  not  the  least  token  of 
emotion  in  her  quiet  low  voice.  She  held  out  the  black  shagreen- 
case  with  her  fair  arm,  that  did  not  shake  in  the  least.  Esmond 
saw  she  wore  a  black  velvet  bracelet  on  it,  with  my  Lord  Duke's 
picture  in  enamel;  he  had  given  it  her  but  three  days  before  he 
fell. 

Esmond  said  the  stones  were  his  no  longer,  and  strove  to  turn 
off  that  proffered  restoration  with  a  laugh:  "Of  what  good,"  says 
he,  ''are  they  to  me?  The  diamond  loop  to  his  hat  did  not  set  off 
Prince  Eugene,  and  will  not  make  my  yellow  face  look  any  hand- 
somer." 

"You  will  give  them  to  your  wife,  cousin,"  says  she.  "My 
cousin,  your  wife  has  a  lovely  complexion  and  shape." 

"Beatrix,"  Esmond  burst  out,  the  old  fire  flaming  out  as  it 
would  at  times,  "will  you  wear  those  trinkets  at  your  marriage? 
You  whispered  once  you  did  not  know  me:  you  know  me  better 
now:  how  I  sought,  what  I  have  sighed  for,  for  ten  years,  what 
foregone!" 

"A  price  for  your  constancy,  my  Lord!"  says  she;  "such  a 
preux  chevalier  wants  to  be  paid.     Oh  fie,  cousin!" 

"Again,"  Esmond  spoke  out,  "if  I  do  something  you  have  at 
iieart;    something  wortny  of  me  and  you;   something  that  shall 


468  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

make  me  a  name  with  which  to  endow  you;  will  you  take  it? 
There  was  a  chance  for  me  once,  you  said ;  is  it  impossible  to  recall 
it?  Never  shake  your  head,  but  hear  me;  say  you  will  hear  me  a 
year  hence.  If  I  come  back  to  you  and  bring  you  fame,  will  that 
please  you?  If  I  do  what  you  desire  most — what  he  who  is  dead 
desired  most — will  that  soften  you?" 

"What  is  it,  Henry?"  says  she,  her  face  lighting  up;  "what 
mean  you?" 

"Ask  no  questions,"  he  said;  "wait,  and  give  me  but  time;  if  I 
bring  back  that  you  long  for,  that  I  have  a  thousand  times  heard 
you  pray  for,  will  you  have  no  reward  for  him  who  has  done  you  that 
service?  Put  away  those  trinkets,  keep  them:  it  shall  not  be  at  my 
marriage,  it  shall  not  be  at  yours ;  but  if  man  can  do  it,  I  swear  a 
day  shall  come  when  there  shall  be  a  feast  in  your  house,  and  you 
shall  be  proud  to  wear  them.  I  say  no  more  now;  put  aside  these 
words,  and  lock  away  yonder  box  until  the  day  when  I  shall  remind 
you  of  both.     All  I  pray  of  you  now  is,  to  wait  and  to  remember." 

"Y^ou  are  going  out  of  the  country?"  says  Beatrix,  in  some  agi- 
tation. 

"Yes,  to-morrow,"  says  Esmond. 

"To  Lorraine,  cousin?"  says  Beatrix,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm;  'twas  the  hand  on  which  she  wore  the  Duke's  bracelet.  "Stay, 
Harry!"  continued  she,  with  a  tone  that  had  more  despondency  in 
it  than  she  was  accustomed  to  show.  "Hear  a  last  word.  I  do  love 
you.  I  do  admire  you — who  would  not,  that  has  known  such  love 
as  yours  has  been  for  us  all?  But  I  think  I  have  no  heart ;  at  least, 
I  have  never  seen  the  man  that  could  touch  it;  and,  had  I  found 
him,  I  would  have  followed  him  in  rags  had  he  been  a  private  sol- 
dier, or  to  sea,  like  one  of  those  buccaneers  you  used  to  read  to  us 
about  when  we  were  children.  I  would  do  anything  for  such  a 
man,  bear  anything  for  him :  but  I  never  found  one.  Y^ou  were 
ever  too  much  of  a  slave  to  win  my  heart;  even  my  Lord  Duke 
couM  not  command  it.  I  had  not  been  happy  had  I  married  him. 
I  knew  tliat  three  months  after  our  engagement — and  was  too  vain 
to  break  it.    O  Harry!    I  cried  once  or  twice,  not  for  Lim,  but  with 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  469 

tears  of  rage  because  I  could  not  be  sorry  for  him.  I  was  fright- 
ened to  find  I  was  glad  of  his  death ;  and  were  I  joined  to  you,  I 
should  have  the  same  sense  of  servitude,  the  same  longing  to 
escape.  We  should  both  be  unhappy,  and  you  the  most,  who  are  as 
jealous  as  the  Duke  was  himself.  I  tried  to  love  him;  I  tried, 
indeed  I  did:  affected  gladness  when  he  came;  submitted  to  hear 
when  he  was  by  me,  and  tried  the  wife's  part  I  thought  I  was  to 
play  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  But  half-an-hour  of  that  complais- 
ance wearied  me,  and  what  would  a  lifetime  be?  My  thoughts 
were  away  when  he  was  speaking;  and  I  was  thinking,  Oh  that 
this  man  w^ould  drop  my  hand,  and  rise  up  from  before  my  feet!  I 
knew  his  great  and  noble  qualities,  greater  and  nobler  than  mine  a 
thousand  times,  as  yours  are,  cousin,  I  tell  you,  a  million  and  a 
million  times  better.  But  'twas  not  for  these  I  took  him.  I  took 
him  to  have  a  great  place  in  the  world,  and  I  lost  it.  I  lost  it,  and 
do  not  deplore  him— and  I  often  thought,  as  I  listened  to  his  fond 
vows  and  ardent  w^ords,  Oh,  if  I  yield  to  this  man  and  meet  the 
other,  I  shall  hate  him  and  leave  him!  I  am  not  good,  Harry:  my 
mother  is  gentle  and  good  like  an  angel.  I  wonder  how  she  should 
have  had  such  a  child.  She  is  weak,  but  she  would  die  rather  than 
do  a  wrong ;  I  am  stronger  than  she,  but  I  would  do  it  out  of  defiance. 
I  do  not  care  for  what  the  parsons  tell  me  with  their  droning  ser- 
mons :  I  used  to  see  them  at  Court  as  mean  and  as  worthless  as  the 
I  meanest  woman  there.  Oh,  I  am  sick  and  weary  of  the  world !  I 
f  wait  but  for  one  thing,  and  when  'tis  done,  I  will  take  Frank's 
religion  and  your  poor  mother's  and  go  into  a  nunnery,  and  end 
I  like  her.  Shall  I  wear  the  diamonds  then? — they  say  the  nuns 
f  wear  their  best  trinkets  the  day  they  take  the  veil.  I  will  put 
ttliem  away  as  you  bid  me.  Farewell,  cousin:  mamma  is  pacing 
the  next  room,  racking  her  little  head  to  know  w^liat  we  have  been 
saying.  She  is  jealous :  all  women  are.  I  sometimes  think  that  is 
the  only  womanly  quality  I  have. ' ' 

"Farewell.     Farewell,  brother."     She  gave  him  her  cheek  as  a 
brotherly  privilege.     The  cheek  was  as  cold  as  marble. 

Esmond's  mistress  showed  no  signs  of  jealousy  when  he  returned 


470  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

to  the  room  where  she  was.  She  had  schooled  herself  so  as  to  look 
quite  inscrutably,  when  she  had  a  mind.  Amongst  her  other  femi- 
nine qualities  she  had  that  of  being  a  perfect  dissembler 

He  rid  away  from  Castlewood  to  attempt  the  task  he  was  bound 
on,  and  stand  or  fall  by  it;  in  truth  his  state  of  mind  was  such, 
tliat  he  was  eager  for  some  outward  excitement  to  counteract  that 
gnawing  malady  which  he  was  inwardly  enduring. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

I  TRAVEL  TO  FRANCE    AND  BRING   HOME   A  PORTRAIT   OF   RIGAUD 

Mr.  Esmond  did  not  think  fit  to  take  leave  at  Court,  or  to 
inform  all  the  world  of  Pall  Mall  and  the  coffee-houses,  that  he 
was  about  to  quit  England ;  and  chose  to  depart  in  the  most  private 
manner  possible.  He  procured  a  pass  as  for  a  Frenchman,  through 
Doctor  Atterbury,  who  did  that  business  for  him,  getting  the  sig- 
nature even  from  Lord  Bolingbroke's  office,  without  any  personal 
application  to  the  Secretary.  Lockwood,  his  faithful  servant,  he 
took  with  him  to  Castlewood,  and  left  behind  there:  giving  out 
ere  he  left  London  that  he  himself  was  sick,  and  gone  to  Hampshire 
for  country  air,  and  so  departed  as  silently  as  might  be  upon  his 
business. 

As  Frank  Castlewood's  aid  was  indispensable  for  Mr.  Esmond's 
scheme,  his  first  visit  was  to  Bruxelles  (passing  by  way  of 
Antwerp,  where  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  was  in  exile),  and  in  the 
first-named  place  Harry  found  his  dear  young  Benedict,  the  mar- 
ried man,  who  appeared  to  be  rather  out  of  humour  with  his  matri- 
monial chain,  and  clogged  with  the  obstinate  embraces  which 
Clotilda  kept  around  his  neck.  Colonel  Esmond  was  not  presented 
to  her ;  but  Monsieur  Simon  was,  a  gentleman  of  the  Royal  Cravat 
(Esmond  bethought  him  of  the  regiment  of  his  honest  Irishman, 
whom  he  had  seen  that  day  after  Malplaquet,  when  lie  first  set  eyes 
on  the  young  King) ;  and  Monsieur  Simon  was  introduced  to  the 
Viscountess  Castlewood,  7iee  Comptesse  Wertheim ;  to  the  numer- 
ous Counts,  the  Lady  Clotilda's  tall  brothers;  to  her  fatlier  the 
Chamberlain;  and  to  the  lady  his  wife,  Frank's  mother-in-law,  a 
tall  and  majestic  person  of  large  proportions,  such  as  became  the 
mother  of  such  a  company  of  grenadiers  as  her  warlike  sons 
formed.     The  whole  race  were  at  free  quarters  in  the  little  castle 

471 


472  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

nigh  to  Bruxelles  which  Frank  had  taken ;  rode  his  horses ;  drank 
his  wine ;  and  lived  easily  at  the  poor  lad's  charges.  Mr.  Esmond 
had  always  maintained  a  perfect  fluency  in  the  French,  which  was 
his  mother  tongue ;  and  if  this  family  (that  spoke  French  with  the 
twang  which  the  Flemings  use)  discovered  any  inaccuracy  in  Mr. 
Simon's  pronunciation,  'twas  to  be  attributed  to  the  latter's  long 
residence  in  England,  where  he  had  married  and  remained  ever 
since  he  was  taken  prisoner  at  Blenheim.  His  story  was  perfectly 
pat ;  there  were  none  there  to  doubt  it  save  honest  Frank,  and  he 
was  charmed  with  his  kinsman's  scheme,  when  he  became 
acquainted  with  it;  and,  in  truth,  always  admired  Colonel  Esmond 
with  an  affectionate  fidelity,  and  thought  his  cousin  the  wisest  and 
best  of  all  cousins  and  men.  Frank  entered  heart  and  soul  into  the 
plan,  and  liked  it  the  better  as  it  was  to  take  him  to  Paris,  out  of 
reach  of  his  brothers,  his  father,  and  his  mother-in-law,  whose 
attentions  rather  fatigued  him. 

Castlewood,  I  have  said,  was  born  in  the  same  year  as  the 
Prince  of  Wales ;  had  not  a  little  of  the  Prince's  air,  height,  and 
figure;  and,  especially  since  he  had  seen  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
George  on  the  occasion  before-named,  took  no  small  pride  in  his 
resemblance  to  a  person  so  illustrious;  which  likeness  he  increased 
by  all  means  in  his  power,  wearing  fair  brown  periwigs,  such  as  the  I 
Prince  wore,  and  ribands,  and  so  forth,  of  the  Chevalier's  colour. 

This  resemblance  was,  in  truth,  the  circumstance  on  which  Mr. 
Esmond's  scheme  was  founded;  and  having  secured  Frank's  secrecy 
and  enthusiasm,  he  left  him  to  continue  his  journey,  and  see  the 
other  personages  on  whom  its  success  depended.  The  place 
whither  Mr.  Simon  next  travelled  was  Bar,  in  Lorraine,  where 
that  merchant  arrived  with  a  consignment  of  broadcloths,  valuable 
laces  from  Malines,  and  letters  for  his  correspondent  there. 

Would  you  know  how  a  prince,  heroic  from  misfortunes,  and 
descended  from  a  line  of  kings,  wliose  race  seemed  to  be  doomed 
like  the  Atridae  of  old — would  you  know  how  he  was  employed, 
when  the  envoy  who  came  to  him  through  danger  and  difficulty 
beheld  him  for  the  first  time?    The  young  King,  in  a  flannel  jacket, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  473 

was  at  tennis  with  the  gentlemen  of  his  suite,  crying  out  after  the 
balls,  and  swearing  like  the  meanest  of  his  subjects.  The  next 
time  Mr.  Esmond  saw  him,  'twas  when  Monsieur  Simon  took  a 
packet  of  laces  to  Miss  Oglethorpe :  the  Prince's  antechamber  in 
those  days,  at  which  ignoble  door  men  were  forced  to  knock  for 
admission  to  his  Majesty.  The  admission  was  given,  the  envoy 
found  the  King  and  the  mistress  together :  the  pair  were  at  cards, 
and  his  Majesty  was  in  liquor.  •  He  cared  more  for  three  honours 
than  three  kingdoms ;  and  a  half-dozen  glasses  of  ratafia  made  him 
forget  all  his  woes  and  his  losses,  his  father's  crown,  and  his  grand- 
father's head. 

Mr.  Esmond  did  not  open  himself  to  the  Prince  then. 
His  Majesty  was  scarce  in  a  condition  to  hear  him;  and 
he  doubted  whether  a  King  who  drank  so  much  could  keep 
a  secret  in  his  fuddled  head;  or  whether  a  hand  that  shook 
so,  was  strong  enough  to  grasp  at  a  crown.  However,  at 
last,  and  after  taking  counsel  with  the  Prince's  advisers,  amongst 
whom  were  many  gentlemen,  honest  and  faithful,  Esmond's 
plan  was  laid  before  the  King,  and  her  actual  Majesty  Queen 
Oglethorpe,  in  counsel.  The  Prince  liked  the  scheme  well  enough : 
'twas  easy  and  daring,  and  suited  to  his  reckless  gaiety  and  lively 
youthful  spirit.  In  the  morning  after  he  had  slept  his  wine  off  he 
was  very  gay,  lively,  and  agreeable.  His  manner  had  an  extreme 
charm  of  archness,  and  a  kind  simplicity ;  and,  to  do  her  justice, 
her  Oglethorpean  Majesty  was  kind,  acute,  resolute,  and  of  good 
counsel ;  she  gave  the  Prince  much  good  advice  that  he  was  too 
weak  to  follow,  and  loved  him  with  a  fidelity  which  he  returned 
with  an  ingratitude  quite  Royal. 

Having  his  own  forebodings  regarding  his  scheme  should  it  ever 
be  fulfilled,  and  his  usual  sceptic  doubts  as  to  the  benefit  which 
might  accrue  to  the  country  by  bringing  a  tipsy  young  monarcU 
back  to  it.  Colonel  Esmond  had  his  audience  of  leave,  and  quiet 
Monsieur  Simon  took  his  departure.  At  any  rate  the  youth  at  Bar 
was  as  good  as  the  older  Pretender  at  Hanover;  if  the  worst  came 
to  the  worst,  the  Englishman  could  be  dealt  with  as  easy  as  the 


474  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

German.  Monsieur  Simon  trotted  on  that  long  journey  from  Nancy 
to  Paris,  and  saw  that  famous  town,  stealthily  and  like  a  spy,  as  in 
truth  he  was;  and  where,  sure,  more  magnificence  and  more  misery 
is  heaped  together,  more  rags  and  lace,  more  filth  and  gilding,  than 
in  any  city  in  this  world.  Here  he  was  put  in  communication  with 
the  King's  best  friend,  his  half-brother,  the  famous  Duke  of 
Berwick;  Esmond  recognised  him  as  the  stranger  who  had  visited 
Castlewood  now  near  twenty  years  ago.  His  Grace  opened  to  him 
when  he  found  that  Mr.  Esmond  was  one  of  Webb's  brave  regi- 
ment, that  had  once  been  his  Grace's  own.  He  was  the  sword  and 
buckler  indeed  of  the  Stuart  cause;  there  was  no  stain  on  his  shield 
except  the  bar  across  it,  which  3Iarlborough*s  sister  left  him.  Had 
Berwick  been  his  father's  heir,  James  the  Third  had  assuredly  sat 
on  the  English  throne.  He  could  dare,  endure,  strike,  speak,  be 
silent.  The  fire  and  genius,  perhaps,  he  had  not  (that  were  given 
to  baser  men),  but  except  these  he  had  some  of  the  best  qualities  of 
a  leader.  His  Grace  knew  Esmond's  father  and  history ;  and  hinted 
at  the  latter  in  such  a  way  as  made  the  Colonel  to  think  he  was 
aware  of  the  particulars  of  that  story.  But  Esmond  did  not  choose 
to  enter  on  it,  nor  did  the  Duke  press  him.  Mr.  Esmond  said,  "No 
doubt  he  should  come  by  his  name  if  ever  greater  people  came  by 
theirs.'' 

What  confirmed  Esmond  in  his  notion  that  the  Duke  of  Berwick 
knew  of  his  case  was,  that  when  the  Colonel  went  to  paj*  his  duty 
at  St.  Germains,  her  Majesty  once  addressed  him  by  the  title  of 
Marquis.  He  took  the  Queen  the  dutiful  remembrances  of  her 
goddaughter,  and  the  lady  vrhom,  in  the  days  of  her  prosperity,  her 
Majesty  had  befriended.  The  Queen  remembered  Racliel  Esmond 
perfectly  well,  had  heard  of  my  Lord  Castle  wood's  conversion,  and 
was  much  edified  by  that  act  of  Heaven  in  his  favour.  She  knew 
that  others  of  that  family  had  been  of  the  only  true  Church  too: 
"'Your  father  and  your  mother,  31.  le  Marquis,"  her  Majesty  said 
(that  was  the  only  time  she  used  the  phrase).  Monsieur  Simon 
bowed  very  low,  and  said  he  had  found  other  parents  than  his 
own,    who  had  taught   him  differently ;  but  these   had   only  one 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  475 

King:  on  which  her  Majesty  was  pleased  to  give  him  a  medal 
blessed  by  the  Pope,  which  had  been  found  very  efficacious  in  cases 
similar  to  his  own,  and  to  promise  she  would  offer  up  prayers  for 
bis  conversion  and  that  of  the  family:  which  no  doubt  this  pious 
lady  did,  though  up  to  the  present  moment,  and  after  twenty-seven 
years,  Colonel  Esmond  is  bound  to  say  that  ueitlier  the  medal  nor 
the  prayers  have  had  the  slightest  known  effect  upon  his  religious 
convictions. 

As  for  the  splendours  of  Versailles,  Monsieitr  Simon,  the  mer- 
chant, only  beheld  them  as  a  humble  and  distant  spectator,  seeing 
the  old  King  but  once,  when  he  went  to  feed  his  carps:  and  asking 
for  no  presentation  at  his  Majesty's  Court. 

By  this  time  my  Lord  Viscount  Casftlewood  was  got  to  Paris, 
where,  as  the  London  prints  presently  announced,  her  Ladyship 
was  brought  to  bed  of  a  son  and  heir.  For  a  long  while  afterwards 
she  was  in  a  delicate  state  of  health,  and  ordered  by  the  physicians 
not  to  travel;  otherwise  'twas  well  known  that  the  Viscount 
Castlewood  proposed  returning  to  England,  and  taking  up  his  resi- 
dence at  his  own  seat. 

"Whilst  he  remained  at  Paris,  my  Lord  Castlewood  had  his  pic- 
ture done  by  the  famous  French  painter,  Monsieur  Rigaud,  a 
present  for  his  mother  in  London ;  and  this  piece  Monsieur  Simon 
took  back  with  him  when  he  returned  to  that  citj^,  which  he 
reached  about  May,  in  the  year  1714,  very  soon  after  which  time 
my  Lady  Castlewood  and  her  daughter,  and  their  kinsman,  Colonel 
Esmond,  who  had  been  at  Castlewood  all  this  time,  likewise 
returned  to  London;  her  Ladyship  occupying  her  house  at  Ken- 
sington, Mr.  Esmond  returning  to  his  lodgings  at  Knightsbridge, 
nearer  the  town,  and  once  more  making  his  appearance  at  all  pub- 
lic places,  his  health  greatly  improved  by  his  long  stay  in  the 
Dountry. 

The  portrait  of  my  Lord,  in  a  handsome  gilt  frame,  was  hung 
up  in  the  place  of  honour  in  her  Ladyship's  drawing-room.  His 
Lordship  was  represented  in  his  scarlet  uniform  of  Captain  of  the 
Gimrd,  with  a  light  brown  periwig,  a  cuirass  under  his  coat,  a  blue 


476  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

riband,  and  a  fall  of  Bruxelles  lace.  Many  of  her  Ladyship's 
friends  admired  the  piece  beyond  measure,  and  flocked  to  see  it ; 
Bishop  Atterbury,  Mr.  Lesly,  good  old  Mr.  Collier,  and  others 
amongst  the  clergy,  were  delighted  with  the  performance,  and 
many  among  the  first  quality  examined  and  praised  it ;  only  I  must 
own  that  Doctor  Tusher  happening  to  come  up  to  London,  and 
seeing  the  picture  (it  was  ordinarily  covered  by  a  curtain,  but  on 
this  day  Miss  Beatrix  happened  to  be  looking  at  it  when  the  Doctor 
arrived),  the  Vicar  of  Castlewood  vowed  he  could  not  see  any 
resemblance  in  the  piece  to  his  old  pupil,  except,  perhaps,  a  little 
about  the  chin  and  the  periwig;  but  we  all  of  us  convinced  him 
that  lie  had  not  seen  Frank  for  five  years  or  more;  that  he  knew  no 
more  about  the  Fine  Arts  than  a  ploughboy,  and  that  he  must  be 
mistaken;  and  we  sent  him  home  assured  that  the  piece  was  an 
excellent  likeness.  As  for  my  Lord  Bolingbroke,  who  honoured 
her  Ladyship  with  a  visit  occasionally,  when  Colonel  Esmond 
showed  him  the  picture  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  asked  what 
devilry  he  was  engaged  on?  Esmond  owned  simply  that  the 
portrait  was  not  that  of  Viscount  Castlewood ;  besought  the  Secre- 
tary on  his  honour  to  keep  the  secret ;  said  that  the  ladies  of  the 
house  were  enthusiastic  Jacobites,  as  was  well  known ;  and  con- 
fessed that  the  picture  was  that  of  the  Chevalier  St.  George. 

The  truth  is,  that  Mr.  Simon,  waiting  upon  Lord  Castlewood 
one  day  at  Monsieur  Rigaud's,  whilst  his  Lordship  was  sitting  for 
his  picture,  affected  to  be  much  struck  with  a  piece  representing 
the  Chevalier,  whereof  the  head  only  was  finished,  and  purchased 
it  of  the  painter  for  a  hundred  crowns.  It  had  been  intended,  the 
artist  said,  for  Miss  Oglethorpe,  the  Prince's  mistress,  but  that 
young  lady  quitting  Paris,  had  left  the  work  on  the  artist's  hands ; 
and  taking  this  piece  home,  when  my  Lord's  portrait  arrived. 
Colonel  Esmond,  alias  Monsieur  Simon,  had  copied  the  uniform  and 
other  accessories  from  my  Lord's  picture  to  fill  up  Rigaud's  incom- 
plete canvas:  the  Colonel  all  his  life  having  been  a  practitioner  of 
painting,  and  especially  followed  it  during  his  long  residence  in  the 
cities    of    Flanders,    among    the    masterpieces    of  Vandyck    and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  477 

Rubens.  My  grandson  hath  the  piece,  such  as  it  is,  in  Virginia 
now. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  month  of  June,  Miss  Beatrix 
Esmond,  and  my  Lady  Viscountess,  her  mother,  arrived  from 
Castlewood ;  the  former  to  resume  her  services  at  Court,  which  had 
been  interrupted  by  the  fatal  catastrophe  of  Duke  Hamilton's 
death.  She  once  more  took  lier  place,  then,  in  her  Majesty's  suite 
and  at  the  Maids'  table,  being  always  a  favourite  with  Mrs. 
Masham,  the  Queen's  chief  woman,  partly  perhaps  on  account  of 
their  bitterness  against  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  whom  Miss 
Beatrix  loved  no  better  than  her  rival  did.  The  geijtlemen  about 
the  Court,  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  amongst  others,  owned  that  the 
young  lady  had  come  back  handsomer  than  ever,  and  that  the 
serious  and  tragic  air  which  her  face  now  involuntarily  wore 
became  her  better  than  her  former  smiles  and  archness. 

All  the  old  domestics  at  the  little  house  of  Kensington  Square  were 
changed;  the  old  steward  that  had  served  the  family  any  time 
these  five-and-twenty  years,  since  the  birth  of  the  children  of  the 
house,  was  despatched  into  the  kingdom  of  Ireland  to  see  my 
Lord's  estate  there;  the  housekeeper,  who  had  been  my  Lady's 
woman  time  out  of  mind,  and  the  attendant  of  the  young  children, 
was  sent  away  grumbling  to  Walcote,  to  see  to  the  new  painting 
and  preparing  of  that  house,  which  my  Lady  Dowager  intended 
to  occupy  for  the  future,  giving  up  Castlewood  to  her  daughter-in- 
law  that  might  be  expected  daily  from  France.  Another  servant 
the  Viscountess  had  was  dismissed  too — with  a  gratuity — on  the 
pretext  that  her  Ladyship's  train  of  domestics  must  be  diminished; 
so,  finally,  there  was  not  left  in  the  household  a  single  person  who 
had  belonged  to  it  during  the  time  my  young  Lord  Castlewood  was 
yet  at  home. 

For  the  plan  which  Colonel  Esmond  had  in  view,  and  the  stroke 
he  intended,  'twas  necessary  that  the  very  smallest  number  of 
persons  should  be  put  in  possession  of  his  secret.  It  scarce  was 
known,  except  to  tlaree  or  four  ou-t  of  his  family,  and  it  was  kept  to 
a  wonder. 


478  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

On  the  10th  of  June  1714,  there  came  by  Mr.  Prior's  messengei 
from  Paris  a  letter  from  my  Lord  Viscount  Castle  wood  to  his 
mother,  saying  that  he  had  been  foolish  in  regard  of  money  mat- 
ters, that  he  was  ashamed  to  own  he  had  lost  at  play,  and  by  other 
extravagances;  and  that,  instead  of  liaving  great  entertainments  as 
he  had  hoped  at  Castlewood  this  year,  he  must  live  as  quiet  as  he 
•could,  and  make  every  effort  to  be  saving.  So  far  every  word  of  poor 
Prank's  letter  was  true,  nor  was  there  a  doubt  that  he  and  his  tali 
brothers-in-law  had  spent  a  great  deal  more  than  they  ought,  and 
engaged  the  revenues  of  the  Castlewood  property,  which  the  fond 
mother  had  husbanded  and  improved  so  carefully  during  the  time 
of  her  guardianship. 

His  "Clotilda,"  Castlewood  went  on  to  say,  "was  still  delicate, 
.and  the  physicians  thought  her  lying-m  had  be.st  take  place  at  Paris. 
He  should  come  without  her  Ladyship,  and  be  at  his  mother's 
liouse  about  the  17th  or  18th  day  of  June,  proposing  to  take  horse 
from  Paris  immediately,  and  bringing  but  a  single  servant  with 
him;  and  he  requested  that  the  lawyers  of  Gray's  Inn  might  be 
invited  to  meet  him  with  their  account,  and  the  land-steward 
come  from  Castlewood  with  his,  so  that  he  might  settle  with  them 
speedily,  raise  a  sum  of  money  whereof  he  stood  in  need,  and  be 
back  to  his  viscountess  by  the  time  of  her  lying-in.''  Then  his 
Lordship  gave  some  of  the  news  of  the  town,  sent  his  remembrance 
to  kinsfolk,  and  so  the  letter  ended.  'Twas  put  in  tlie  common  post 
and  no  doubt  the  French  police  and  the  English  there  had  a  copy  of 
it,  to  which  they  were  exceeding  welcome. 

Two  days  after  another  letter  was  despatched  by  the  public  post 
of  Fi'ance,  in  the  same  open  way,  and  this,  after  giving  news  of  the 
fashion  at  Court  there,  ended  by  the  following  sentences,  in  which, 
but  for  those  that  had  the  key,  'twould  be  difficult  for  any  man  to 
find  any  secret  lurked  at  all : — 

"(The  King  will  take)  medicine  on  Thursday.  His  Majesty  is 
better  than  he  hath  been  of  late,  though  incommoded  by  indiges- 
tion from  his  too  great  appetite.     Madame  Maintenon  continues 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HE>JKY  ESMOND  479 

well.  They  have  performed  a  play  of  Mons.  Racine  at  St.  Cyr.  The 
Duke  of  Shrewsbury  and  Mr.  Prior,  our  envo3%  and  all  the  English 
nobility  here,  were  present  at  it.  (The  Viscount  Castlewood's  pase- 
ports)  were  refused  to  him,  'twas  said;  his  Lordship  being  sued  by 
a  goldsmith  for  Vaisselle  plate,  and  a  pearl  necklace  supplied  to 
Mademoiselle  Meruel  of  the  French  Comedy.  'Tis  a  pity  such  news 
should  get  abroad  (and  travel  to  England)  about  our  young  nobility 
here.  Mademoiselle  Meruel  has  been  sent  to  the  Fort  TEvesque; 
they  say  she  has  ordered  not  only  i^late,  but  furniture,  and  a 
chariot  and  horses  (under  that  lord's  name),  of  which  extrava- 
gance his  unfortunate  Viscountess  knows  nothing. 

"(His  Majesty  will  be)  eighty-two  years  of  age  on  his  next  birth- 
day. The  Court  prepares  to  celebrate  it  with  a  great  feast.  Mr. 
Prior  is  in  a  sad  way  about  their  refusing  at  home  to  send  him  his 
plate.  Ail  here  admired  my  Lord  Viscount's  portrait,  and  said  it 
was  a  masterpiece  of  Rigaud.  Have  you  seen  it?  It  is  (at  the  Lady 
Castlewood's  house  in  Kensington  Square).  I  think  no  English 
painter  could  produce  such  a  piece. 

"Our  poor  friend  the  Abbe  hath  been  at  the  Bastile,  but  is  now 
transported  to  the  Conciergerie  (where  his  friends  may  visit  him. 
They  are  to  ask  for)  a  remission  of  his  sentence  soon.  Let  us  hope 
the  poor  rogue  will  have  repented  in  prison. 

"(The  Lord  Castle  wood)  has  had  the  affair  of  the  plate  made  up, 
and  departs  for  England. 

"Is^not  this  a  dull  letter?  I  have  a  cursed  headache  with  drink- 
ing with  Mat  and  some  more  over-night,  and  tipsy  or  sober  am 

"Thine  ever ."' 

All  this  letter  save  some  dozen  of  words  which  I  have  put  above 
between  brackets,  was  mere  idle  talk,  though  the  substance  of  the 
letter  was  as  important  as  any  letter  well  could  be.  It  told  those 
that  had  the  key,  that  The  King  icill  take  the  Viscount  Castlewood's 
2Xtssi)orts  and  travel  to  England  under  that  lord's  name.  His 
Majesty  will  he  at  the  Lady  Castlewood's  house  in  Kensington 
Square,  where  his  friends  may  visit  him.     They  are  to  ask  for  the 


480  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Lord  Castleivood.  This  note  may  have  passed  under  Mr.  Prior's 
eyes,  and  those  of  our  new  allies  the  French,  and  taught  them 
nothing:  though  it  explains  sufficiently  to  persons  in  London  what 
the  event  was  which  was  about  to  happen, 'as  'twill  show  those  who 
read  my  memoirs  a  hundred  years  hence,  what  was  that  errand  on 
which  Colonel  Esmond  of  late  had  been  busy.  Silently  and  swiftly 
to  do  that  about  which  others  were  conspiring,  and  thousands  of 
Jacobites  all  over  the  country  clumsily  caballing ;  alone  to  effect 
that  wliich  the  leaders  here  were  only  talking  about ;  to  bring  the 
Prince  of  Wales  into  the  country  openly  in  the  face  of  all,  under 
Bolingbroke's  very  eyes,  the  walls  placarded  with  the  proclamation 
signed  with  the  Secretary's  name,  and  offering  five  hundred  pounds 
reward  for  his  apprehension :  this  was  a  stroke,  tlie  playing  and 
winning  of  which  might  well  give  any  adventurous  spirit  pleasure: 
the  loss  of  the  stake  might  involve  a  heavy  penalty,  but  all  our 
family  were  eager  to  risk  that  for  the  glorious  chance  of  winning 
the  game. 

Nor  should  it  be  called  a  game,  save  perhaps  with  the  chief 
player,  who  was  not  more  or  less  sceptical  than  most  public  men 
with  whom  he  had  acquaintance  in  tliat  age.  (Is  there  ever  a  pub- 
lic man  in  England  that  altogether  believes  in  his  party?  Is  there 
one,  however  doubtful,  that  will  not  fight  for  it?)  Young  Frank 
was  ready  to  fight  without  much  thinking:  he  was  a  Jacobite  as 
his  father  before  him  was;  all  the  Esmonds  were  Royalists.  Give 
him  but  the  word,  he  would  cry,  "God  save  King  James!"  before 
the  palace  guard,  or  at  the  Maypole  in  the  Strand ;  and  with  respect 
to  the  women,  as  is  usual  with  them,  'twas  not  a  question  of  party 
but  of  faith:  their  belief  was  a  passion;  either  Esmond's  mistress 
or  her  daughter  would  have  died  for  it  cheerfully.  I  have  laughed 
often,  talking  of  King  William's  reign,  and  said  I  tliought  Lady 
Castlewood  was  disappointed  the  King  did  not  persecute  the  family 
more,;  and  those  who  know  the  nature  of  women  may  fancy  for 
themselves,  what  needs  not  here  be  written  down,  the  rapture  with 
which  these  neophytes  received  the  mystery  when  made  known  to 
them;  the  eagerness  with  which  they  looked  forward  to  its  com- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  48t 

pletion ;  the  reverence  which  they  paid  the  minister  who  initiated 
thera  into  that  secret  Truth,  now  known  only  to  a  few,  but  pres- 
ently to  reign  over  the  world.  Sure  there  is  no  bound  to  the  trust- 
ingness  of  women.  Look  at  Arria  worshipping  the  drunken 
clodpate  of  a  husband  who  beats  her;  look  at  Cornelia  treasuring 
as  a  jewel  in  her  maternal  heart  the  oaf  her  son.  I  have  known  a 
woman  preach  Jesuit's  bark,  and  afterwards  Dr.  Berkeley's  tar- 
water,  as  though  to  swallow  them  were  a  divine  decree,  and  to 
refuse  them  no  better  than  blasphemy. 

On  his  return  from  France  Colonel  Esmond  put  himself  at  the 
head  of  this  little  knot  of  fond  conspirators.  No  death  or  torture 
he  knew  would  frighten  them  out  of  their  constancy.  When  he 
detailed  his  plan  for  bringing  the  King  back,  his  elder  mistress 
thought  that  that  Restoration  was  to  be  attributed  under  Heaven 
to  the  Castle  wood  family  and  to  its  chief,  and  she  worshipped  and 
loved  Esmond,  if  that  could  be,  more  than  ever  she  had  done.  She 
doubted  not  for  one  moment  of  the  success  of  his  scheme,  to  mis- 
trust which  would  have  seemed  impious  in  her  eyes.  And  as  for 
Beatrix,  when  she  became  acquainted  with  the  plan,  and  joined  it, 
I,  as  she  did  with  all  her  heart,  she  gave  Esmond  one  of  her  searching 
1  bright  looks.  "Ah,  Harry,"  says  she,  "why  were  you  not  the  head 
I  of  our  house?  You  are  the  only  one  fit  to  raise  it ;  why  do  you  give 
that  silly  boy  the  name  and  the  honour?  But  'tis  so  in  the  world: 
those  get  the  prize  that  don't  deserve  or  care  for  it.  I  wish  I 
could  give  you  your  silly  prize,  cousin,  but  I  can't ;  I  have  tried,  and 
I  can't."  And  she  went  away,  shaking  her  head  mournfully,  but 
always,  it  seemed  to  Esmond,  that  her  liking  and  respect  for  him 
was  greatly  increased,  since  she  knew  what  capability  he  had  both 
to  act  and  bear ;  to  go  and  to  forego. 


CHAPTER  IX 

fHE   ORIGINAL  OF   THE   PORTRAIT   COMES  TO   ENGLAND 

"Twas  announced  in  the  family  that  my  Lord  Castlewood  would 
arrive,  having  a  confidential  French  gentleman  in  his  suite,  who 
acted  as  secretary  to  his  Lordship,  and  who,  being  a  Papist,  and  a 
foreigner  of  a  good  family,  though  now  in  rather  a  menial  place, 
would  have  his  meals  served  in  his  chamber,  and  not  with  the 
domestics  of  the  house.  The  Viscountess  gave  up  her  bedchamber 
contiguous  to  her  daughter's,  and  having  a  large  convenient  closet 
attached  to  it,  in  which  a  bed  was  put  up,  ostensibly  for  Monsieur 
Baptiste,  the  Frenchman;  though,  'tis  needless  to  say,  when  the 
doors  of  the  apartments  were  locked,  and  the  two  guests  retired 
within  it,  the  young  Viscount  became  the  servant  of  the  illustrious 
Prince  whom  he  entertained,  and  gave  up  gladly  the  more  con- 
venient and  airy  cliamber  and  bed  to  his  master.  Madam  Beatrix 
also  retired  to  the  upper  region,  her  chamber  being  converted  into 
a  sitting-room  for  my  Lord.  The  better  to  carry  the  deceit, 
Beatrix  affected  to  grumble  before  the  servants,  and  to  be  jealous 
that  she  was  turned  out  of  her  chamber  to  make  way  for  my  Lord. 

No  small  preparations  were  made,  you  may  be  sure,  and  no 
sliglit  tremor  of  expectation  caused  the  hearts  of  the  gentle  ladies 
of  Castlewood  to  flutter,  before  the  arrival  of  the  personages  wlio 
were  about  to  honour  their  house.  The  chamber  was  ornamented 
with  flowers;  the  bed  covered  with  the  very  finest  of  linen;  the 
two  ladies  insisting  on  making  it  themselves,  and  kneeling  down  at 
the  bedside  and  kissing  the  sheets  out  of  respect  for  the  web  that 
was  to  hold  the  sacred  person  of  a  King.  The  toilet  was  of  silver! 
and  crystal;  there  was  a  copy  of  "Eikon  Basilike*"  laic  on  the  writ- 
ing-table; a  portrait  of  the  martyred  King  hung  always  over  the- 
mantel,  having  a  sword  of  my  poor  Lord  Castlewood  underneath  it, 

482 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  483 

and  a  little  picture  or  emblem  which  the  widow  loved  always  to 
have  before  her  eyes  on  waking,  and  in  which  the  hair  of  her  lord 
and  her  two  children  was  worked  together.  Her  books  of  private 
devotions,  as  they  were  all  of  the  English  Church,  she  carried 
away  with  her  to  the  upper  apartment,  which  she  destined  for 
herself.  The  ladies  showed  Mr.  Esmond,  when  they  were  com- 
pleted, the  fond  preparations  they  had  made.  'Twas  then  Beatrix 
knelt  down  and  kissed  the  linen  sheets.  As  for  her  mother,  Lady 
Castlewood  made  a  curtsey  at  the  door,  as  she  would  have  done  to 
the  altar  on  entering  a  church,  and  owned  that  she  considered  the 
chamber  in  a  manner  sacred. 

The  company  in  the  servants'  hall  never  for  a  moment  supposed 
that  these  preparations  were  made  for  any  other  person  than  the 
young  Viscount,  the  lord  of  the  house,  whom  his  fond  mother  had 
been  for  so  many  years  without  seeing.  Both  ladies  were  perfect 
housewives,  having  the  greatest  skill  in  the  making  of  confections, 
scented  waters,  &c.,  and  keeping  a  notable  superintendence  over 
the  kitchen.  Calves  enough  were  killed  to  feed  an  army  of 
prodigal  sons,  Esmond  thought,  and  laughed  when  he  came  to  wait 
en  the  ladies,  on  the  day  when  the  guests  were  to  arrive,  to  find 
two  pairs  of  the  finest  and  roundest  arms  to  be  seen  in  England  (my 
Lady  Castlewood  was  remarkable  for  this  beauty  of  her  person), 
covered  with  flour  up  above  the  elbows,  and  preparing  paste,  and 
turning  rolling-pins  in  the  housekeeper's  closet.  The  guest  would 
not  arrive  till  supper-time,  and  my  Lord  would  prefer  having  that 
meal  in  his  own  chamber.  Y''ou  may  be  sure  the  brightest  plate  of 
the  house  v\'as  laid  out  there,  and  can  understand  why  it  was  that 
the  ladies  insisted  that  they  alone  would  wait  upon  the  young  chief 
pf  the  family. 

Taking  horse.  Colonel  Esmond  rode  rapidly  to  Rochester,  and 

there  awaited  the  King  in  that  very  town  where  his  father  had  last 

[.    set  his  foot  on  the  Enghsh  shore.     A  room  had  been  provided  at  an 

inn  there  for  my  Lord  Castlewood  and  his  servant ;  and  Colonel 

Esmond  timed  his  ride  so  well  that  he  had  scarce  been  half-an-hour 

i  in  the  place,  and  was  looking  over  the  balcony  into  the  yard  of  the 


484  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

inn,  when  two  travellers  rode  in  at  the  inn  gate,  and  the  Colonel 
running  down,  the  next  moment  embraced  his  dear  young  lord. 

My  Lord's  companion,  acting  the  part  of  a  domestic,  dis- 
mounted, and  was  for  holding  the  Viscount's  stirrup;  but  Colonel 
Esmond,  calling  to  his  own  man,  who  was  in  the  court,  bade  him 
take  the  horses  and  settle  with  the  lad  who  had  ridden  the  post 
along  with  the  two  travellers,  crying  out  in  a  cavalier  tone  in  the 
French  language  to  my  Lord's  companion,  and  affecting  to  grumble 
that  my  Lord's  fellow  was  a  Frenchman,  and  did  not  know  the 
money  or  habits  of  the  country: — "My  man  will  see  to  the  horses, 
Baptiste,"  says  Colonel  Esmond:  "do  you  understand  English?" 
"Very  leetle. "  "So,  follow  my  Lord  and  wait  upon  him  at  dinner 
in  his  own  room."  The  landlord  and  his  people  came  up  presently 
bearing  the  dishes;  'twas  well  they  made  a  noise  and  stir  in  the 
gallery,  or  they  might  have  found  Colonel  Esmond  on  his  knee 
before  Lord  Castlewood's"  servant,  welcoming  his  Majesty  to  his 
kingdom,  and  kissing  the  hand  of  the  King.  We  told  the  landlord 
that  the  Frenchman  would  wait  on  his  master;  and  Esmond's  man 
was  ordered  to  keep  sentry  in  the  gallery  without  the  door.  The 
Prince  dined  with  a  good  appetite,  laughing  and  talking  very  gaily, 
and  condescendingly  bidding  his  two  companions  to  sit  with  hira 
at  table.  He  was  in  better  spirits  than  poor  Frank  Castlewood, 
who  Esmond  thought  might  be  woebegone  on  account  of  parting 
with  his  divine  Clotilda;  but  the  Prince  wishing  to  take  a  short 
siesta  after  dinner,  and  retiring  to  an  inner  chamber  where  there 
was  a  bed,  the  cause  of  poor  Frank's  discomfiture  came  out;  and 
bursting  into  tears,  with  many  expressions  of  fondness,  friendship, 
and  humiliation,  the  faithful  lad  gave  his  kinsman  to  understand 
that  he  now  knew  all  the  truth,  and  the  sacrifices  which  Colonel 
Esmond  had  made  for  him. 

Seeing  no  good  in  acquainting  poor  Frank  with  that  secret,  Mr. 
Esmond  had  entreated  his  mistress"  also  not  to  reveal  it  to  her  son. 
The  Prince  had  told  the  poor  lad  all  as  they  were  riding  from 
Dover:  "I  had  as  lief  he  had  shot  me,  cousin,"  Frank  said.  "I 
knew  you  were  the  best,  and  the  bravest,  and  the  kindest  of  all  men" 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  485 

(so  the  enthusiastic  young  fellow  went  on) ;  "but  I  never  thought  I 
I  owed  you  what  I  do,  and  can  scarce  bear  the  weight  of  the  obliga- 
tion." 

"I  stand  in  the  place  of  your  father,"  says  Mr.  Esmond  kindly, 
*'and  sure  a  father  may  dispossess  himself  in  favour  of  his  son.  I 
abdicate  the  twopenny  crown,  and  invest  you  with  the  kingdom  of 
Brentford;  don't  be  a  fool  and  cry;  you  make  a  much  taller  and 
handsomer  viscount  than  ever  T  could."  But  the  fond  boy,  with 
oaths  and  protestations,  laughter  and  incoherent  outbreaks  of  pas- 
sionate emotion,  could  not  be  got,  for  some  little  time,  to  put  up 
with  Esmond's  raillery;  wanted  to  kneel  down  to  him,  and  kissed 
his  hand;  asked  him  and  implored  him  to  order  something,  to  bid 
Castle  wood  give  his  own  life  or  take  somebody  else's ;  anything,  so  that 
he  might  show  his  gratitude  for  the  generosity  Esmond  showed  him, 

"The  K ,  he  laughed,"  Frank  said,  pointing  to  the  door  where 

the  sleeper  was,  and  speaking  in  a  low  tone.  "I  don't  think  he 
should  have  laughed  as  he  told  me  the  story.  As  we  rode  along 
from  Dover,  talking  in  French,  he  spoke  about  you,  and  your  com- 
ing to  him  at  Bar;  he  called  you  'le  grand  serieux,'  Don  Bellianis 
of  Greece,  and  I  don't  know  what  names;  mimicking  your  man- 
ner'* (here  Castle  wood  lauglied  himself) — "and  he 'did  it  very  well. 
He  seems  to  sneer  at  everything.  He  is  not  like  a  king:  somehow, 
Harry,  I  fancy  you  are  like  a  king.  He  does  not  seem  to  think 
I  what  a  stake  we  are  all  playing.  He  would  have  stopped  at  Can- 
;  terbury  to  run  after  a  barmaid  there,  had  I  not  implored  him  to 
come  on.  He  hath  a  house  at  Chaillot,  where  he  used  to  go  and 
bury  himself  for  weeks  away  from  the  Queen,  and  with  all  sorts  of 
bad  company,"  says  Frank,  with  a  demure  look.  "You  may  smile, 
but  I  am  not  the  wild  fellow  I  was ;  no,  no,  I  have  been  taught 
better,"  says  Castlewood  devoutly,  making  a  sign  on  his  breast. 

"Thou  art  my  dear  brave  bo3^"  said  Colonel  Esmond,  touched  at 
the  young  fellow's  simplicity,  "and  there  will  be  a  noble  gentleman 
at  Castlewood  so  long  as  my  Frank  is  there." 

The  impetuous  young  lad  was  for  going  down  on  his  knees 
again,  with  another  explosion  of  gratitude,  but  that  we  heard  the 


486  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

voice  from  the  next  chamber  of  the  august  sleeper,  just  waking, 
calling  out,  ''Eh,  La  Fleur,  un  verre  d'eau!*'  His  Majesty  came 
out  yawning: — "A  pest,''  says  he,  "upon  your  English  ale,  'tis  so 
strong  that,  mafoi,  it  hath  turned  my  head.'' 

The  effect  of  the  ale  was  like  a  spur  upon  our  horses,  and  we 
rode  very  quickly  to  London,  reaching  Kensington  at  nightfall. 
Mr  Esmond's  servant  was  left  behind  at  Rochester,  to  take  care  of 
the  tired  horses,  whilst  we  had  fresh  beasts  provided  along  the 
road.  And  galloping  by  the  Prince's  side  the  Colonel  explained  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales  what  his  movements  had  been;  wlio  the 
friends  were  that  knew  of  the  expedition ;  whom,  as  Esmond  con- 
ceived, the  Prince  should  trust;  entreating  him,  above  all,  to  main- 
tain the  very  closest  secrecy  until  the  time  should  come  when  his 
Royal  Highness  should  appear.  The  town  swarmed  with  friends 
of  the  Prince's  cause:  there  were  scores  of  correspondents  with  St. 
Germains;  Jacobites  known  and  secret;  great  in  station  and  hum- 
ble; about  the  Court  and  the  Queen;  in  the  Parliament,  Church, 
and  among  the  merchants  in  the  City.  The  Prince  had  friends 
numberless  in  the  army,  in  the  Privy  Council,  and  the  Officers  of 
State.  The  great  object,  as  it  seemed,  to  the  small  band  of  persons 
who  had  concerted  that  bold  stroke,  who  had  brought  the  Queen's 
brother  into  his  native  country,  was,  that  his  visit  should  remain 
unknown  till  the  proper  time  came,  when  his  presence  should  sur- 
prise friends  and  enemies  alike;  and  the  latter  should  be  found  so 
unjjrepared  and  disunited,  that  they  should  not  find  time  to  attack 
him.  We  feared  more  from  his  friends  than  from  his  enemies. 
The  lies  and  tittle-tattle  sent  over  to  St.  Germains  by  the  Jacobite 
agents  about  London,  had  done  an  incalculable  mischief  to  his 
cause,  and  woefully  misguided  him,  and  it  was  from  these 
especially,  that  the  persons  engaged  in  the  present  venture  were 
anxious  to  defend  the  chief  actor  in  it/* 

1  The  managers  were  the  Bishop,  who  caunot  be  hurt  by  having  his  name 
mentioned,  a  very  active  and  loyal  Nonconformist  Divine,  a  lady  in  the  highest 
faronr  at  Com-t,  with  whom  Beatrix  Esmond  had  communication,  and  two 
noblemen  of  the  greatest  rank,  and  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons,  who 
was  imjjlicated  in  more  transactions  than  one  in  behalf  of  the  Stuart  family. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  487 

The  party  reached  London  by  nightfall,  leaving  their  horses  at 
the  Posting-House  over  against  Westminster,  and  being  ferried  over 
the  water,  where  Lady  Esmond's  coach  was  already  in  waiting.  In 
another  hour  we  were  all  landed  at  Kensington,  and  the  mistress  of 
the  house  had  that  satisfaction  which  her  heart  had  yearned  after 
for  many  years,  once  more  to  embrace  her  son,  who,  on  his  side, 
with  all  his  waywardness,  ever  retained  a  most  tender  affection  for 
his  parent. 

She  did  not  refrain  from  this  expression  of  her  feeling,  though 

i  the  domestics  were  by,  and  my  Lord  Castlewood's  attendant  stood 
in  the  hall.  Esmond  had  to  whisper  to  him  in  Frencli  to  take  his 
hat  off.  Monsieur  Baptiste  was  constantly  neglecting  his  part  \vith 
an  inconceivable  levity:  more  than  once  on  the  ride  to  London, 
little  observations  of  the  stranger,  light  remarks,  and  words  betok- 
ening the  greatest  ignorance  of  the  country  the  Prince  came  to 
govern,  had  hurt  the  susceptibility  of  the  two  gentlemen  forming 
his  escort;  nor  could  either  help  owning  in  his  secret  mind  that 
they  would  have  had  his  behaviour  otherwise,  and  that  the  laugh- 
ter and  the  lightness,  not  to  say  licence,  which  characterised  his 
talk,  scarce  befitted  such  a  great  Prince,  and  such  a  solemn  occa- 
sion. Not  but  that  he  could  act  at  proper  times  with  spirit  and 
dignity.     He  had  behaved,  as  we  all  knew,  in  a  very  courageous 

:  manner  on  the  field.  Esmond  had  seen  a  copy  of  the  letter  the 
Prince  had  writ  with  his  own  hand  when  urged  by  his  friends  in 
England  to  abjure  his  religion,  and  admired  that  manly  and  mag- 

;  nanimous  reply  by  which  he  refused  to  yield  to  the  temptation. 
Monsieur  Baptiste  took  ofi'  his  hat,  blushing  at  the  hint  Colonel 
Esmond  ventured  to  give  him,  and  said,  ''Tenez,  elle  est  jolie,  la 
petite  mere.  Foi  de  Chevalier!  elle  est  charmante;  mais  Tautre, 
qui  est  cette  nymphe,  cet  astre  qui  brille,  cette  Diane  qui  descend 
sur  nous?"  And  he  started  back,  a,nd  pushed  forward,  as  Beatrix 
was  descending  the  stair.  She  was  in  colours  for  the  first  time  at 
her  own  house;  she  wore  the  diamonds  Esmond  gave  her;  it  had 
been  agreed  between  tliem,  that  she  should  wear  these  brilliants  on 
the  day  w-hen  the    King  should  enter  the  house,   and  a  queen 


488  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

she  looked,  radiant  in  charms,  and  magnificent  and  imperial  in 
beauty. 

Castlewood  himself  was  startled  by  that  beauty  and  splendour; 
he  stepped  back  and  gazed  at  his  sister  as  though  he  had  not  been 
aware  before  (nor  was  he  very  likely)  how  perfectly  lovely  she 
was,  and  I  thought  blushed  as  he  embraced  her.  The  Prince 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  her;  he  quite  forgot  his  menial  part, 
though  he  had  been  schooled  to  it,  and  a  little  light  portmanteau 
prepared  expressly  that  he  should  carry  it.  He  pressed  forwartl 
before  my  Lord  Viscount.  'Twas  lucky  the  servants'  eyes  were 
busy  in  other  directions,  or  they  must  have  seen  that  this  was  no 
servant,  or  at  least  a  very  insolent  and  rude  one. 

Again  Colonel  Esmond  was  obliged  to  cry  out,  "Baptiste,"  in  a 
loud  imperious  voice,  "have  a  care  to  the  valise!"  at  which  hint 
the  wilful  young  man  ground  his  teeth  together  with  something 
very  like  a  curse  between  them,  and  then  gave  a  brief  look  of  any- 
thing but  pleasure  to  his  Mentor.  Being  reminded,  however,  he 
shouldered  the  little  portmanteau,  ai.l  carried  it  up  the  stair, 
Esmond  preceding  him,  and  a  servant  with  lighted  tapers.  He 
flung  down  his  burden  sulkily  in  the  bedchamber: — "A  Prince  that 
will  wear  a  crown  nmst  wear  a  mask,"  says  Mr.  Esmond  in  French. 

"Ah  peste!  I  see  how  it  is,"  says  Monsieur  Baptiste,  continuing 
the  talk  in  Fren(!h.  "The  Great  Serious  is  seriously" — "alarmed 
for  Monsieur  Baptiste,"  broke  in  the  Colonel.  Esmond  neither 
liked  tlie  tone  with  which  the  Prince  spoke  of  the  ladies,  nor  the 
eyes  with  which  he  regarded  them. 

The  bedchamber  and  the  two  rooms  adjoining  it,  the  closet  and 
the  apartment  which  was  to  be  called  my  Lord's  parlour,  were 
already  lighted  and  awaiting  their  occupier ;  and  the  collation  laid 
for  my  Lord's  supper.  Lord  Castlewood  and  his  mother  and  sister 
came  up  the  stair  a  minute  afterwards,  and,  so  soon  as  the  domes- 
tics had  quitted  the  apartment,  Castlewood  and  Esmond  uncov- 
ered, arid  the  two  ladies  went  down  on  their  knees  before  the 
Prince,  who  graciously  gave  a  hand  to  each.  He  looked  his  part  of 
Prince  much  more  naturally  than  that  of  servant,  which  he  had 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  489 

just  been  trying,  and  raised  them  both  with  a  great  deal  of  nobil- 
ity, as  well  as  kindness  in  his  air.  "Madam,"  says  he,  "my  mother 
will  thank  your  Ladyship  for  your  hospitality  to  her  son ;  for  you, 
madam,"  turning  to  Beatrix,  "I  cannot  bear  to  see  sd  much  beauty 
in  such  a  posture.  You  will  betray  Monsieur  Baptiste  if  you  kneel 
to  him;  sure  'tis  his  place  rather  to  kneel  to  you." 

A  light  shone  out  of  her  eyes;  a  gleam  bright  enough  to  kindle 
passion  in  any  breast.  There  were  times  when  this  creature  was  so 
handsome,  that  she  seemed,  as  it  were,  like  Venus  revealing  herself 
a  goddess  in  a  flash  of  brightness.  She  appeared  so  now;  radiant, 
and  with  eyes  bright  with  a  wonderful  lustre.  A  pang,  as  of  rage 
and  jealousy,  shot  through  Esmond's  heart,  as  he  caught  the  look 
she  gave  the  Prince;  and  he  clenched  his  hand  involuntarily,  and 
looked  across  to  Castlewood,  whose  eyes  answered  his  alarm-signal, 
and  were  also  on  the  alert.  The  Prince  gave  his  subjects  an  audi- 
ence of  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  two  ladies  and  Colonel  Esmond 
quitted  the  chamber.  Lady  Castlewood  pressed  his  hand  as  they 
descended  the  stair,  and  the  three  went  down  to  the  lower  rooms, 
where  they  waited  awhile  till  the  travellers  above  should  be 
refreshed  and  ready  for  their  meal. 

Esmond  looked  at  Beatrix,  blazing  with  her  jewels  on  her  beau- 
tiful neck.  "I  have  kept  my  word, "  says  he.  "And  I  mine,"  says 
Beatrix,  looking  down  on  tlie  diamonds. 

"Were  I  the  Mogul  Emperor,"  says  the  Colonel,  "you  should 
have  all  that  were  dug  out  of  Golconda." 

"These  are  a  great  deal  too  good  for  me,"  says  Beatrix,  dropping 
her  head  on  her  beautiful  breast, — "so  are  you  all,  all!"  And 
when  she  looked  up  again,  as  she  did  in  a  moment,  and  after  a 
sigh,  her  eyes,  as  they  gazed  at  her  cousin,  wore  that  melancholy 
and  inscrutable  look  which  'twas  always  impossible  to  sound. 

When  the  time  came  for  the  su^jper,  of  which  we  were  adver- 
tised by  a  knocking  overhead.  Colonel  Esmond  and  the  two  ladies 
went  to  the  upi^er  apartment,  where  the  Prince  already  was,  and 
iby  his  side  the  young  Viscount,  of  exactly  the  same  age,  shape, 
and  with  features  not  dissimilar,  though  Frank's  were  the  hand- 


490  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

somer  of  the  two.  The  Prince  sat  down  and  bade  the  ladies  sit. 
The  gentlemen  remained  standing:  there  was,  indeed,  but  one 
more  cover  laid  at  the  table: — "'Which  of  you  will  take  it?"'  says  he. 

"The  head  of  our  house,''  says  Lady  Castlewood,  taking  her  son's 
hand,  and  looking  towards  Colonel  Esmond  with  a  bow  and  a  great 
tremor  of  the  voice;  "the  Marquis  of  Esmond  will  have  the  honour 
of  serving  the  King." 

"I  shall  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  his  Royal  Highness," 
says  Colonel  Esmond,  filling  a  cup  of  wine,  and,  as  the  fashion  of 
that  day  w^as,  he  presented  it  to  the  King  on  his  knee. 

"I  drink  to  my  hostess  and  her  family,"  says  tlie  Prince,  with 
no  very  well-pleased  air ;  but  the  cloud  passed  immediately  off  his 
face,  and  he  talked  to  the  ladies  in  a  lively,  rattling  strain,  quite 
undisturbed  by  poor  Mr.  Esmond's  yellow  countenance,  that,  I 
dare  say,  looked  very  glum. 

When  the  time  came  to  take  leave,  Esmond  marched  homewards 
to  his  lodgings,  and  met  Mr.  Addison  on  the  road  that  night,  walk- 
ing to  a  cottage  he  had  at  Fulliam,  the  moon  shining  on  his  hand- 
some serene  face:— "What cheer,  brother?"  says  Addison,  laughing: 
"I  thought  it  was  a  footpad  advancing  in  the  dark,  and  behold  'tis 
an  old  friend.  We  may  shake  hands,  Colonel,  in  the  dark;  'tis 
better  than  fighting  by  daylight.  Why  should  we  quarrel,  because 
I  am  a  Whig  and  thou  art  a  Tory?  Turn  thy  steps  and  walk  with 
nie  to  Fulham,  wdiere  there  is  a  nightingale  still  singing  in  the  garden, 
and  a  cool  bottle  in  a  cave  I  know  of;  you  shall  drink  to  the  Pre- 
tender if  you  like,  and  I  will  drink  my  liquor  my  own  way:  I  have 
had  enough  of  good  liquor? — no,  never  1  There  is  no  such  word  as 
enough  as  a  stopper  for  good  wine.  Thou  wilt  not  come?  Come 
any  day,  come  soon.  You  know  I  remember  Siinois  and  the  Sigeia 
fellus,  and  the proeZia,  mixta  viero,  mixta  mero,'''  he  repeated,  with 
ever  so  slight  a  touch  of  mcruui  in  his  voice,  and  walked  back  a 
little  way  on  the  road  witli  Esmond,  bidding  the  other  remember 
he  was  always  his  friend,  and  indebted  to  him  for  his  aid  in  the 
"Campaign"  poem.  And  very  likely  Mr.  Under-Secretary  would 
have  stepped  in  and  taken  t'other  bottle  at  the  Colonel's  lodging, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  491 

had  the  latter  invited  him,  but  Esmond's  mood  was  none  of  the 
gayest,  and  he  bade  his  friend  an  inhospitable  good-night  at  the 
door. 

"I  have  done  the  deed,"  thought  he,  sleepless,  and  looking  out 
into  the  night;  "he  is  here,  and  I  have  brought  him;  he  and 
Beatrix  are  sleeping  under  the  same  roof  now.  Whom  did  I  mean 
to  serve  in  bringing  him?  Was  it  the  Prince?  was  it  Henry 
Esmond?  Had  I  not  best  have  joined  the  manly  creed  of  Addison 
yonder,  that  scouts  the  old  doctrine  of  right  divine,  that  boldly 
declares  that  Parliament  and  people  consecrate  the  Sovereign,  not 
bishops,  nor  genealogies,  nor  oils,  nor  coronations."  The  eager 
gaze  of  the  young  Prince,  watching  every  movement  of  Beatrix, 
haunted  Esmond  and  pursued  him.  The  Prince's  figure  appeared 
before  him  in  his  feverish  dreams  many  times  that  night.  He 
wished  the  deed  undone  for  which  he  had  laboured  so.  He  was 
not  the  first  that  has  regretted  his  own  act,  or  brought  about  his 
own  undoing.  Undoing?  Should  he  write  that  word  in  his  late 
years?  No,  on  his  knees  before  Heaven,  rather  be  thankful  for 
what  then  he  deemed  his  misfortune,  and  which  hath  caused  the 
whole  subsequent  happiness  of  his  life. 

Esmond's  man,  honest  John  Lockwood,  had  served  his  master 
and  the  family  all  his  life,  and  the  Colonel  knew  that  he  could 
answer  for  John's  fidelity  as  for  his  own.  John  returned  with  the 
horses  from  Rochester  betimes  the  next  morning,  and  the  Colonel 
gave  him  to  understand  that  on  going  to  Kensington,  where  he 
was  free  of  the  servants'  hall,  and  indeed  courting  Miss  Beatrix's 
maid,  he  was  to  ask  no  questions,  and  betray  no  surprise,  but  to  vouch 
stoutly  that  the  young  gentleman  he  should  see  in  a  red  coat  there 
was  my  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood,  and  that  his  attendant  in  grey 
was  Monsieur  Baptiste  the  Frenchman.  He  was  to  tell  his  friends  in 
the  kitchen  such  stories  as  he  remembered  of  my  Lord  Viscount's 
youth  at  Castlewood;  what  a  wild  boy  he  was;  how  he  used  to 
drill  Jack  and  cane  him,  before  ever  he  was  a  soldier;  everything, 
in  fine,  he  knevv-  respecting  my  Lord  Viscount's  early  days.  Jack's 
ideas  of  painting  had  not  been  much  cultivated  during  his  residence 


492  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

in  Flanders  with  his  master;  and,  before  my  young  lord's  return, 
he  had  been  easily  got  to  believe  that  the  picture  brought  over 
from  Paris,  and  now  hanging  in  Lady  Castlewood's  drawing-room, 
was  a  perfect  likeness  of  her  son,  the  young  lord.  And  the  domes- 
tics having  all  seen  the  picture  many  times,  and  catching^  but  a 
momentary  imperfect  glimpse  of  the  two  strangers  on  the  night  of 
their  arrival,  never  had  a  reason  to  doubt  the  fidelity  of  the  por- 
trait ;  and  next  day,  when  they  saw  the  original  of  the  piece  hab- 
ited exactly  as  he  was  represented  in  the  painting,  with  the  same 
periwig,  ribands,  and  uniform  of  the  Guard,  quite  naturally 
addressed  the  gentleman  as  my  Lord  Castlewood,  my  Lady 
Viscountess's  son. 

The  secretary  of  the  night  previous  was  now  the  Viscount;  the 
Viscount  w^ore  the  secretary's  grey  frock;  and  John  Lockwood  was 
instructed  to  hint  to  the  world  below  stairs  that  my  Lord  being  a 
Papist.,  and  very  devout  in  that  religion,  his  attendant  might  be 
no  other  than  his  chaplain  from  Bruxelles;  hence,  if  he  took  his 
meals  in  my  Lord's  company  there  was  little  reason  for  surprise. 
Frank  was  further  cautioned  to  speak  English  with  a  foreign 
accent,  w^hich  task  he  performed  indifferently  well,  and  this  caution 
was  the  more  necessary  because  the  Prince  himself  scarce  spoke  our 
language  like  a  native  of  the  island :  and  John  Lockwood  laughed 
with  the  folks  below  stairs  at  the  manner  in  w^hich  my  Lord,  after 
live  years  abroad,  sometimes  forgot  his  own  tongue  and  spoke  it 
like  a  Frenchman.  "I  w^arrant, "  says  he,  "that  with  the  English 
beef  and  beer,  his  Lordship  will  soon  get  back  the  proper  use  of  his 
mouth;"  and,  to  do  his  new  lordship  justice,  he  took  to  beer  and 
beef  very  kindly. 

The  Prince  drank  so  much,  and  was  so  loud  and  imprudent  in 
his  talk  after  his  drink,  that  Esmond  often  trembled  for  him.  His 
meals  were  served  as  much  as  possible  in  his  own  chamber,  though 
frequently  he  made  his  appearance  in  Lady  Castlewood's  parlour 
and  drawing-room,  calling  Beatrix  "sister,"  and  her  Ladyship 
"mother,"  or  "madam,"  before  the  servants.  And.  choosing  to 
act  entirely  up  to  the  part  of  brother  and  son.  the  Prince  sometimes 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  493 

saluted  Mrs.  Beatrix  and  Lady  Castlewood  with  a  freedom  which, 
his  secretary  did  not  like,  and  which,  for  his  part,  set  Colonel 
Esmond  tearing  with  rage. 

The  guests  had  not  been  three  days  in  the  house  when  poor  Jack 
Lockwood  came  with  a  rueful  countenance  to  his  master,  and  said: 
"My  Lord — that  is,  the  gentleman — has  been  tampering  with  Mrs. 
Lucy"  (Jack's  sweetheart),  "and  given  her  guineas  and  a  kiss."  I 
fear  that  Colonel  Esmond's  mind  was  rather  relieved  than  other- 
wise when  he  found  that  the  ancillary  beauty  was  the  one  whom 
the  Prince  had  selected.  His  Royal  tastes  were  known  to  lie  that 
way,  and  continued  so  in  after  life.  The  heir  of  one  of  the  greatest 
names,  of  the  greatest  kingdoms,  and  of  the  greatest  misfortunes  in 
Europe,  was  often  content  to  lay  the  dignity  of  his  birth  and  grief 
at  the  wooden  shoes  of  a  French  chambermaid,  and  to  repent  after- 
wards (for  he  was  very  devout)  in  ashes  taken  from  the  dust-pan. 
'Tis  for  mortals  such  as  these  that  nations  suffer,  that  parties 
struggle,  that  warriors  fight  and  bleed.  A  year  afterwards  gallant 
heads  were  falling,  and  Nithsdale  in  escape,  and  Derwentwater  on 
the  scaffold ;  whilst  the  heedless  ingrate,  for  whom  they  risked  and 
lost  all,  was  tippling  with  his  seraglio  of  mistresses  in  his  petite 
maison  of  Chaillot. 

Blushing  to  be  forced  to  bear  such  an  errand,  Esmond  had  to  go 
to  the  Prince  and  warn  him  that  the  girl  whom  his  Highness  was 
bribing  was  John  Lockwood's  sweetheart,  an  honest  resolute  man, 
who  had  served  in  six  campaigns,  and  feared  nothing,  and  who 
knew  that  the  person  calling  himself  Lord  Castlewood  was  not  his 
young  master:  and  the  Colonel  besought  the  Prince  to  consider 
what  the  effect  of  a  single  man's  jealousy  might  be,  and  to  think  of 
other  designs  he  had  in  hand,  more  important  than  the  seduction 
of  a  waiting-maid,  and  the  humiliation  of  a  brave  man. 

Ten  times,  perhaps,  in  the  course  of  as  many  days,  Mr.  Esmond 
had  to  warn  the  royal  young  adventurer  of  some  imprudence  or 
some  freedom.  He  received  these  remonstrances  very  testily,  save 
perhaps  in  this  affair  of  poor  Lockwood's,  when  he  deigned  to  burst 
out  a-laughing,  and  said,  "What!  the  soubrette  has  peached  to  the 


494  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

amourev.x,  and  Crispin  is  angry,  and  Crisi)in  has  served,  and 
Crispin  has  been  a  corporal,  has  he?  Tell  him  we  will  reward  his 
valour  with  a  pair  of  colours,  and  recompense  his  fidelity." 

Colonel  Esmond  ventured  to  utter  some  other  words  of  entreaty, 
but  the  Prince,  stamping  imperiously,  cried  out,  "Assez,  milord: 
je  m'ennuye  a  la  preche ;  I  am  not  come  to  London  to  go  to  the 
sermon."  And  he  complained  afterwards  to  Castle  wood,  that  "le 
petit  jaune,  le  noir  Colonel,  le  Marquis  Misanthrope"  (by  which 
facetious  names  his  Royal  Highness  was  pleased  to  designate 
Colonel  Esmond),  "fatigued  him  with  his  grand  airs  and  virtuous 
homilies." 

The  Bishop  of  Rochester,  and  other  gentlemen  engaged  in  the 
transaction  which  had  brought  the  Prince  over,  waited  upon  his 
Royal  Highness,  constantly  asking  for  my  Lord  Castlewood  on  their 
arrival  at  Kensington,  and  being  openly  conducted  to  his  Royal 
Highness  in  that  character,  who  received  them  either  in  my  Lady's 
drawing-room  below,  or  above  in  his  own  apartment;  and  all 
implored  him  to  quit  the  house  as  little  as  possible,  and  to  wait 
there  till  the  signal  should  be  given  for  him  to  appear.  The  ladies 
entertained  him  at  cards,  over  which  amusement  he  spent  many 
hours  in  each  day  and  night.  He  passed  many  hours  more  in 
drinking,  during  which  time  he  would  rattle  and  talk  very  agree- 
ably, and  especially  if  the  Colonel  was  absent,  whose  presence 
always  seemed  to  frighten  him;  and  the  poor  "Colonel  Noir"  took 
that  hint  as  a  command  accordingly,  and  seldom  intruded  his 
black  face  upon  the  convivial  hours  of  this  august  young  prisoner. 
Except  for  those  few  persons  of  whom  the  porter  had  the  list,  Lord 
Castlewood  was  denied  to  all  friends  of  the  house  who  waited  on  his 
Lordship.  The  wound  he  had  received  had  broke  out  again  from 
his  journey  on  horseback,  so  the  world  and  the  domestics  were 

informed.     And  Doctor  A ,^  his  physician  (I  shall  not  mention 

his  name,  but  he  was  physician  to  the  Queen,  of  the  Scots  nation, 
and  a  man  remarkable  for  his  benevolence  as  well  as  his  wit),  gave 

1  There  can  be  very  little  doubt  that  the  Doctor  mentioued  by  my  dear 
father  was  the  famous  Doctor  Arbuthnot.— R,  E.  W. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  495 

orders  that  he  should  be  kept  perfectly  quiet  until  the  vvound  should 
heal.  With  this  gentleman,  who  was  one  of  the  most  active  and 
influential  of  our  party,  and  the  others  before  spoken  of,  the  whole 
secret  lay ;  and  it  was  kept  with  so  much  faithfulness,  and  the 
story  w^e  told  so  simple  and  natural,  that  there  was  no  likelihood  of 
a  discovery  except  from  the  imprudence  of  the  Prince  himself,  and 
an  adventurous  levity  that  we  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  con- 
trol. As  for  Lady  Castlewood,  although  she  scarce  spoke  a  word, 
'twas  easy  to  gather  from  her  demeanour,  and  one  or  two  hints  she 
dropped,  how  deep  her  mortification  was  at  finding  the  hero  whom 
she  had  chosen  to  worship  all  her  life  (and  whose  restoration  had 
formed  almost  the  most  sacred  part  of  her  prayers),  no  more  than 
a  man,  and  not  a  good  one.  She  thought  misfortune  might  have 
chastened  him;  but  that  instructress  had  rather  rendered  him 
callous  than  humble.  His  devotion,  which  was  quite  real,  kepi 
him  from  no  sin  he  had  a  mind  to.  His  talk  show^ed  good-humour, 
gaiety,  even  wit  enough;  but  there  was  a  levitj'' in  his  acts  and 
words  that  he  had  brought  from  among  those  libertine  devotees 
with  whom  he  had  been  bred,  and  that  shocked  the  simplicity  and 
purity  of  the  English  lady,  whose  guest  he  was.  Esmond  spoke  his 
mind  to  Beatrix  pretty  freely  about  the  Prince,  getting  her  brother 
to  put  in  a  word  of  warning.  Beatrix  was  entirely  of  their  opinion ; 
she  thought  he  was  very  light,  very  light  and .  reckless ;  she  could 
not  even  see  the  good  looks  Colonel  Esmond  had  spoken  of.  The 
Prince  had  bad  teeth,  and  a  decided  squint.  How  could  we  say  he 
did  not  squint?  His  eyes  were  fine,  but  there  was  certainly  a  cast 
in  them.  She  rallied  him  at  table  with  wonderful  wit;  she  spoke 
of  him  invariably  as  of  a  mere  boy ;  she  was  more  fond  of  Esmond 
than  ever,  praised  him  to  her  brother,  praised  him  to  the  Prince, 
when  his  Royal  Highness  was  pleased  to  sneer  at  the  Colonel,  and 
warmly  espoused  his  cause:  "And  if  your  Majesty  does  not  give 
him  the  Garter  his  father  had,  when  the  Marquis  of  Esmond  comes 
to  your  Majesty's  Court,  I  will  hang  mj'self  in  my  own  garters,  or 
will  cry  mj^  eyes  out."'  "Rather  than  lose  those,"  says  the  Prince, 
"he  shall  be  made  Archbishop  and  Colonel  of  the  Guard"  (it  was 


496  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Frank  Castle  wood  who  told  me  of  this  conversation  over  their 
supper). 

"Yes,"  cries  she,  with  one  of  her  laughs — I  fancy  I  hear  it  now. 
Thirty  years  afterwards  I  hear  that  delightful  music,  "Yes,  he 
shall  be  Archbishop  of  Esmond  and  Marquis  of  Canterbury." 

"And  what  will  your  Ladyship  be?" says  the  Prince;  "you  have 
but  to  choose  your  place." 

"I,"  says  Beatrix,  "will  be  mother  of  the  maids  to  the  Queen  of 
his  Majesty  King  James  the  Third — Vive  le  Roy!"  and  she  made 
him  a  great  curtsey,  and  drank  a  i)art  of  a  glass  of  wine  in  his 
honour. 

"The  Prince  seized  hold  of  the  glass  and  drank  the  last  drop  of 
it,"  Castlewood  said,  "and  my  mother,  looking  very  anxious,  rose 
up  and  asked  leave  to  retire.  But  that  Trix  is  my  mother's  daugh- 
ter, Harry,"  Frank  continued,  "I  don't  know  what  a  horrid  fear  1 
should  have  of  her.  I  wish — I  wish  this  business  were  over.  You 
are  older  than  I  am,  and  wiser,  and  better,  and  I  owe  you  every- 
thing, and  would  die  for  you — before  George  I  would ;  but  I  wish 
the  end  of  this  were  come." 

Neither  of  us  very  likely  passed  a  tranquil  night;  horrible 
doubts  and  torments  racked  Esmond's  soul;  'twas  a  scheme  of  per- 
sonal ambition,  a  daring  stroke  for  a  selfish  end — he  knew  it.  What 
cared  he,  in  his  heart,  who  was  king?  Were  not  his  very  sympa- 
thies and  secret  convictions  on  the  other  side— on  the  side  of 
People,  Parliament,  Freedom?  And  here  was  he,  engaged  for  a 
Prince  that  had  scarce  heard  the  word  liberty;  that  priests  and 
w^omen,  tyrants  by  nature,  both  made  a  tool  of.  The  misanthrope 
was  in  no  better  humour  after  hearing  that  story,  and  his  grim 
face  more  black  and  yellow  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  X 

WE  ENTERTAIN  A  VERY  DISTINGUISHED  GUEST  AT  KENSINGTON 

Should  any  clue  be  found  to  the  dark  intrigues  at  the  latter  end 
of  Queen  Anne's  time,  or  any  historian  be  inclined  to  follow  it, 
'twill  be  discovered,  I  have  little  doubt,  that  not  one  of  the  great 
personages  about  the  Queen  had  a  defined  scheme  of  policy,  inde- 
pendent of  that  private  and  selfish  interest  which  each  was  bent  on 
pursuing:  St.  John  was  for  St.  John,  and  Harley  for  Oxford,  and 
Marlborough  for  John  Churchill,  always;  and  according  as  they 
could  get  help  from  St.  Germains  or  Hanover,  they  sent  over 
proffers  of  allegiance  to  the  princes  there,  or  betrayed  one  to  the 
other:  one  cause,  or  one  sovereign,  was  as  good  as  another  to 
them,  so  that  they  could  hold  the  best  place  under  him;  and,  like 
Lockit  and  Peachum,  the  Newgate  chiefs  in  the  "Rogue's  Opera"' 
Mr.  Gay  wrote  afterwards,  had  each  in  his  hand  documents  and 
proofs  of  treason  which  v^^ould  hang  the  other,  only  he  did  not  dare 
to  use  the  weapon,  for  fear  of  that  one  which  his  neighbour  also 
carried  in  his  pocket.  Think  of  the  great  Marlborough,  the  great- 
est subject  in  all  the  world,  a  conqueror  of  princes,  that  had 
marched  victorious  over  Germany,  Flafiders,  and  France,  that  had 
given  the  law  to  sovereigns  abroad,  and  been  worshipped  as  a 
divinity  at  home,  forced  to  sneak  out  of  England— his  credit, 
honours,  places,  all  taken  from  him ;  his  friends  in  the  army  broke 
and  ruined ;  and  flying  before  Harley,  as  abject  and  powerless  as  a 
poor  debtor  before  a  bailiff  with  a  writ.  A  paper,  of  which  Harley 
got  possession,  and  showing  beyond  doubt  that  the  Duke  w^as 
engaged  with  the  Stuart  family,  was  the  weapon  with  which  the 
Treasurer  drove  Marlborough  out  of  the  kingdom.  He  fled  to 
Antwerp,  and  began  intriguing  instantly  on  the  other  side,  and 
came  back  to  England,  as  all  know,  a  Whig  and  a  Hanoverian. 

497 


498  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Though  the  Treasurer  turned  out  of  the  army  and  office  every 
man,  military  or  civil,  known  to  be  the  Duke's  friend,  and  gave  the 
vacant  posts  among  the  Tory  party;  he,  too,  was  playing  the 
double  game  between  Hanover  and  St.  Gerraains,  awaiting  the 
expected  catastrophe  of  the  Queen's  death  to  be  Master  of  the 
State,  and  offer  it  to  either  family  that  should  bribe  him  best,  or 
that  the  nation  should  declare  for.  Whichever  the  King  was,  Har- 
ley's  object  was  to  reign  over  him;  and  to  this  end  he  supplanted 
the  former  famous  favourite,  decried  the  actions  of  the  war  which 
had  made  Marlborough's  name  illustrious  and  disdained  no  more 
than  the  great  fallen  competitor  of  his,  the  meanest  arts,  flatteries, 
intimidations,  that  would  secure  his  power.  If  the  greatest  satirist 
the  world  ever  hath  seen  had  writ  against  Harley,  and  not  for  him, 
what  a  history  had  he  left  behind  of  the  last  years  of  Queen  Anne's 
reign!  But  Sw^ift,  that  scorned  all  mankind,  and  himself  not  the 
least  of  all,  had  this  merit  of  a  faithful  partisan,  that  he  loved 
those  chiefs  who  treated  him  well,  and  stuck  by  Harley  bravely  in 
his  fall,  as  he  gallantly  had  supported  him  in  his  better  fortune. 

Incomparably  more  brilliant,  more  splendid,  eloquent,  accom- 
plished than  his  rival,  the  great  St.  John  could  be  as  selfish  as 
Oxford  v.-as,  and  could  act  the  double  part  as  skilfully  as  ambidex- 
trous Churchill.  He  whose  talk  was  always  of  liberty,  no  more 
shrank  from  using  persecution  and  the  pillory  against  his  oppo- 
nents than  if  he  had  been  at  Lisbon  and  Grand  Inquisitor.  This 
lofty  patriot  was  on  his  knees  at  Hanover  and  St.  Germainstoo; 
notoriously  of  no  religion,  he  toasted  Church  and  Queen  as  boldly 
as  the  stupid  Sacheverel,  whom  he  used  and  laughed  at;  and  to 
serve  his  turn,  and  to  overthrow  his  enemy,  he  could  intrigue, 
coax,  bully,  wheedle,  fawn  on  the  Court  favourite,  and  creep  up  the 
backstair  as  silently  as  Oxford,  who  supplanted  Marlborough,  and 
whom  he  himself  supplanted.  The  crash  of  my  Lord  Oxford  hap- 
pened at  this  very  time  whereat  ray  history  is  now  arrived.  He 
was  com6  to  the  very  last  days  of  his  power,  and  the  agent  whom 
he  employed  to  overthrow  the  conqueror  of  Blenheim,  was  now 
engaged  to  upset  the  conqueror's  conqueror,   and  hand  over  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND  499 

staff  of  government  to  Bolingbroke,  who  had  been  panting  to 
hold  it. 

In  expectation  of  the  stroke  that  was  now  preparing,  the  Irish 
regiments  in  the  French  service  were  all  brought  round  about 
Boulogne  in  Picardy,  to  pass  over  if  need  were  with  the  Duke  of 
Berwick;  the  soldiers  of  France  no  longer,  but  subjects  of  James 
the  Third  of  England  and  Ireland  King.  The  fidelity  of  the  great 
mass  of  the  Scots  (though  a  most  active,  resolute,  and  gallant  Whig 
party,  admirably  and  energetically  ordered  and  disciplined,  was 
known  to  be  in  Scotland  too)  was  notoriously  unshaken  in  their 
King.  A  very  great  body  of  Tory  clergy,  nobility,  and  gentry, 
were  public  partisans,  of  the  exiled  Prince;  and  the  indifferents 
might  be  counted  on  to  cry  King  George  or  King  James,  according 
as  either  should  prevail.  The  Queen,  especially  in  her  latter  days, 
inclined  towards  her  own  family.  The  Prince  was  lying  actually 
in  London,  within  a  stone's-cast  of  his  sister's  palace;  the  first  Min- 
ister toppling  to  his  fall,  and  so  tottering  that  the  weakest  push  of 
a  woman's  finger  would  send  him  down;  and  as  for  Bolingbroke, 
his  successor,  we  know  on  whose  side  his  power  and  his  splendid 
eloquence  would  be  on  the  day  when  the  Queen  should  appear 
openly  before  her  Council  and  say: — "This,  my  Lords,  is  my 
brother;  here  is  my  father's  heir,  and  mine  after  me." 

During  the  whole  of  the  previous  year  the  Queen  had  had  many 
and  repeated  fits  of  sickness,  fever,  and  lethargy,  and  her  death 
had  been  constantly  looked  for  by  all  her  attendants.  The  Elector 
of  Hanover  had  wished  to  send  his  son,  the  Duke  of  Cambridge — to 
pay  his  court  to  his  cousin  the  Queen,  the  Elector  said ; — in  truth, 
to  be  on  the  spot  when  death  should  close  her  career.  Frightened 
perhaps  to  have  such  a  memento  mori  under  her  royal  eyes,  her 
Majesty  had  angrily  forbidden  the  young  Prince's  coming  into 
England.  Either  she  desired  to  keep  the  chances  for  her  brother 
open  yet;  or  the  people  about  her  did  not  wish  to  close  with  the 
Whig  candidate  till  they  could  make  terms  with  him.  The  quar- 
rels of  her  Ministers  before  her  face  at  the  Council  board,  the 
pricks  of  conscience  very  likely,  the  importunities  of  her  Ministers, 


500  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

and  constant  turmoil  and  agitation  round  about  lier,  bad  weakened 
and  irritated  tbe  Princess  extremely ;  her  strength  was  giving  way 
under  these  continual  trials  of  her  temper,  and  from  day  to  day  it 
was  expected  she  must  come  to  a  speedy  end  of  them.  Just 
before  Viscount  Castlewood  and  his  companion  came  from  France, 
her  Majesty  was  taken  ill.  The  St.  Anthony's  fire  broke  out  on  the 
Royal  legs;  there  was  no  hurry  for  the  presentation  of  the  young 
lord  at  Court,  or  that  person  who  should  appear  under  his  name ; 
and  ray  Lord  Viscount's  wound  breaking  out  opportunely,  he  was 
kept  conveniently  in  his  chamber  until  such  time  as  his  physician 
would  allow  him  to  bend  his  knee  before  the  Queen.  At  the  com- 
mencement of  July  that  influential  lady,  with  w^hom  it  has  been 
mentioned  that  our  party  had  relations,  came  frequently  to  visit 
her  young  friend,  the  Maid  of  Honour,  at  Kensington,  and  my 
Lord  Viscount  (the  real  or  supposititious),  who  was  an  invalid  at 
Lady  Castlewood's  house. 

On  the  27th  day  of  July,  the  lady  in  question,  who  held  the  most 
intimate  post  about  the  Queen,  came  in  her  chair  from  the  Palace 
hard  by,  bringing  to  the  little  party  in  Kensington  Square  intelli- 
gence of  the  very  highest  importance.  The  final  blow^  had  been 
struck,  and  my  Lord  of  Oxford  and  Mortimer  was  no  longer  Treas- 
urer. The  staff  was  as  yet  given  to  no  successor,  though  my  Lord 
Bolingbroke  would  undoubtedly  be  the  man.  And  now  the  time 
has  come,  the  Queen's  Abigail  said:  and  now  my  Lord  Castlewood 
ought  to  be  presented  to  the  Sovereign. 

After  that  scene  which  Lord  Castlewood  witnessed  and  described 
to  his  cousin,  who  passed  such  a  miserable  night  of  mortification 
and  jealousy  as  he  tliought  over  the  transaction,  no  doubt  the  three 
persons  who  were  set  by  nature  as  protectors  over  Beatrix  came  to 
the  saijae  conclusion,  that  she  must  be  removed  from  the  presence 
of  a  man  whose  desires  towards  her  were  expressed  only  too 
clearly ;  and  who  was  no  more  scrupulous  in  seeking  to  gratify  them 
than  his  father  had  been  before  him.  I  suppose  Esmond's  mistress, 
her  son,  and  the  Colonel  himself,  had  been  all  secretly  debating 
this  matteir  in  their  minds,  for  when  Frank  broke  out,  in  his  blunt 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  501 

way,  with:  "I  think  Beatrix  had  best  be  anywhere  but  here,*' — 
Lady  Castle  wood  said :  "I  thank  you,  Frank,  I  have  thought  so,  too ;' ' 
and  Mr.  Esmond,  though  he  only  remarked  that  it  was  not  for  him 
to  speak,  showed  plainly,  by  the  delight  on  his  countenance,  how 
very  agreeable  that  proposal  was  to  him. 

'One  sees  that  you  think  with  us,  Henry,"  says  the  Viscountess, 
with  ever  so  little  of  sarcasm  in  her  tone:  "Beatrix  is  best  out  of 
this  house  whilst  we  have  our  guest  in  it,  and  as  soon  as  this  morn- 
ing's business  is  done,  she  ought  to  quit  London." 

"What  morning's  business?"  asked  Colonel  Esmond,  not  know- 
ing what  had  been  arranged,  though  in  fact  the  stroKe  next  in 
importance  to  that  of  bringing  the  Prince,  and  of  having  him 
acknowledged  by  the  Queen,  was  now  being  performed  at  the  very 
moment  we  three  were  conversing  together. 

Tiie  Court  lady  with  whom  our  plan  was  concerted,  and  who 
was  a  chief  agent  in  it,  the  Court  physician,  and  the  Bishop  of 
Rochester,  who  were  the  other  two  most  active  participators  in  our 
plan,  had  held  many  councils  in  our  house  at  Kensington  and  else- 
where, as  to  the  means  best  to  be  adopted  for  presenting  our  young 
adventurer  to  his  sister  the  Queen.  The  simple  and  easy  plan  pro- 
posed by  Colonel  Esmond  had  been  agreed  to  by  all  parties,  which 
was  that  on  some  rather  private  day,  when  there  were  not  many 
persons  about  the  Court,  the  Prince  should  appear  there  as  my  Lord 
Castlewood,  should  be  greeted  by  his  sister-in-waiting,  and  led  by 
that  other  lady  into  the  closet  of  the  Queen.  And  according  to  her 
^Majesty's  health  or  humour,  and  the  circumstances  that  might 
arise  during  the  interview,  it  was  to  be  left  to  the  discretion  of 
those  present  at  it,  and  to  the  Prince  himself,  whether  he  should 
declare  that  it  was  the  Queen's  own  brother,  or  the  brother  of 
Beatrix  Esmond,  who  kissed  her  Ro3'al  hand.  And  this  plan  being 
determined  on,  we  were  all  waiting  in  very  much  anxiety  for  the 
day  and  signal  of  execution. 

Two  mornings  after  that  sufiper,  it  being  the  27th  day  of  July, 
the  Bisliop  of  Rochester  breakfasting  with  Lady  Castlewood  and 
her  family,  and  the  meal  scarce  over,  Doctor  A.  's  coach  drove  up  to 
I 


502  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

our  house  at  Kensington,  and  the  Doctor  appeared  amongst  the 
party  there,  enlivening  a  rather  gloomy  company;  for  the  mother 
and  daughter  had  had  words  in  the  morning  in  respect  to  the 
transactions  of  that  supper,  and  other  adventures  perhaps,  and  on 
the  day  succeeding.  Beatrix's  haughty  spirit  brooked  remon- 
strances from  no  superior,  much  less  from  her  mother,  the  gentlest 
of  creatures,  whom  the  girl  commanded  rather  than  obeyed.  And 
feeling  she  was  wrong,  and  that  by  a  thousand  coquetries  (which 
she  could  no  more  help  exercising  on  every  man  that  came  near  her, 
than  the  sun  can  help  shining  on  great  and  small)  she  had  provoked 
the  Prince's  dangerous  admiration,  and  allured  him  to  the  expres- 
sion of  it,  she  was  only  the  more  wilful  and  imperious  the  more 
she  felt  her  error. 

To  this  party,  the  Prince  being  served  with  chocolate  in  his  bed- 
chamber, where  he  lay  late  sleeping  away  the  fumes  of  his  wine, 
the  Doctor  came,  and  by  the  urgent  and  startling  nature  of  his 
news,  dissipated  instantly  that  private  and  minor  unpleasantry 
under  which  the  family  of  Castlewood  was  labouring. 

He  asked  for  the  guest ;  the  guest  was  above  in  his  own  apart- 
ment :  he  bade  Monsieur  Baptiste  go  up  to  his  master  instantly,  and 
requested  that  my  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood  would  straightway  put 
his  uniform  on,  and  come  away  in  the  Doctor's  coach  now  at  the 
door. 

He  then  informed  Madam  Beatrix  what  her  part  of  the  comedy 
was  to  be: — "In  half-an-hour,"  says  he,  "her  Majesty  and  her 
favourite  lady  will  take  the  air  in  the  Cedar  walk  behind  the  new 
Banqueting-house.  Her  Majesty  will  be  drawn  in  a  garden  chair, 
ISIadam  Beatrix  Esmond  and  her  brother,  my  Lord  Viscount  Castle- 
wood, will  be  walking  in  the  private  garden  (here  is  Lady  Masham's 
key),  and  will  come  unawares  upon  the  Royal  party.  The  man 
that  draws  the  chair  will  retire,  and  leave  the  Queen,  the  favourite, 
and  the  Maid  of  Honour  and  her  brother  together ;  Mistress  Beatri  s: 
will  present  her  brother,  and  thenl-^and  then,  my  Lord  Bishop  will 
pray  for  the  result  of  the  interview,  and  his  Scots  clerk  will  say 
Amen!     Quick,  put  on  your  hood.  Madam  Beatrix:  why  doth  not 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  503 

his  Majesty  come  down?  Such  another  chance  may  not  present 
itself  for  months  again." 

The  Prince  was  late  and  lazy,  and  indeed  had  all  but  lost  that 
f'hance  through  his  indolence.  The  Queen  was  actually  about  to 
leave  the  garden  just  when  the  party  reached  it ;  the  Doctor,  the 
Bishop,  the  Maid  of  Honour,  and  her  brother,  went  off  together  in 
the  physician's  coach,  and  had  been  gone  half-an-hour  when 
CY)lonel  Esmond  came  to  Kensington  Square. 

The  news  of  this  errand,  on  which  Beatrix  was  gone,  of  course 
for  a  moment  put  all  thoughts  of  private  jealousy  out  of  Colonel 
Esmond's  head.  In  half-an-hour  more  the  coach  retm*ned;  the 
Bishop  descended  from  it  first,  and  gave  his  arm  to  Beatrix, 
wh.o  now  came  out.  His  Lordship  went  back  into  the  carriage 
again,  and  the  Maid  of  Honour  entered  the  house  alone.  We  were 
all  gazing  at  her  from  the  upper  window,  trying  to  read  from  her 
countenance  the  result  of  the  interview  from  which  she  had  just 
come. 

She  came  into  the  drawing-room  in  a  great  tremor  and  very 
pale ;  she  asked  for  a  glass  of  water  as  her  mother  went  to  meet 
her,  and  after  drinking  that  and  putting  off  her  hood,  she  began  to 
speak: — "We  may  all  hope  for  the  best,"  says  she;  "it  has  cost  the 
Queen  a  fit.     Her  Majesty  was  in  her  chair  in  the  Cedar  walk, 

accompanied  only  by  Lady ,  w^hen  we  entered  by  the  private 

wicket  from  the  west  side  of  the  garden,  and  turned  towards  her, 
the  Doctor  following  us.  They  waited  in  a  side  walk  hidden  by 
the  shrubs,  as  we  advanced  towards  the  chair.  My  heart  throbbed 
so  I  scarce  could  speak;  but  my  Prince  whispered  'Courage, 
Beatrix,'  and  marched  on  with  a  steady  step.  His  face  was  a  little 
flushed,  but  he  was  not  afraid  of  the  danger.  He  who  fought  so 
bravely  at  Malplaquet  fears  nothing."  Esmond  and  Castle  wood 
looked  at  each  other  at  this  compliment,  neither  liking  the  sound 
of  it. 

"The  Prince  uncovered,"  Beatrix  continued,  "and  I  sav.-  the 
Queen  turning  round  to  Lady  Masham,  as  if  asking  who  these  two 
were.     Her  Majesty  looked  very  pale  and  ill,  and  then  flushed  up; 


5(4  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

the  favourite  made  us  a  signal  to  advance,  and  I  went  up,  leading 
my  Prince  bv  the  hand,  quite  close  to  the  chair:  'Your  Majesty 
will  give  my  Lord  Viscount  your  hand  to  kiss,'  says  her  lady,  and 
the  Queen  put  out  her  hand,  which  the  Prince  kissed,  kneeling  on 
his  knee,  he  who  should  kneel  to  no  mortal  man  or  woman. 

"  'You  have  been  long  from  England,  my  Lord,'  says  the  Queen: 
*why  were  you  not  here  to  give  a  home  to  your  mother  and  sister?' 
"  'I  am  come,  madam,  to  stay  now,  if  the  Queen  desires  me,'  says 
the  Prince,  with  another  low  bow. 

"  'You  have  taken  a  foreign  wife,  my  Lord,  and  a  foreign 
religion ;  was  not  that  of  England  good  enough  for  you?' 

"  'In  returning  to  my  father's  Church,'  says  the  Prince,  'I  do 
not  love  my  mother  the  less,  nor  am  I  the  less  feithful  servant  of 
your  Majesty. ' 

"Here,"  says  Beatrix,  "the  favourite  gave  me  a  little  signal 
with  her  hand  to  fall  back,  which  I  did,  though  I  died  to  hear  wliat 
should  pass;  and  whispered  something  to  the  Queen,  which  made 
her  Majesty  start  and  utter  one  or  two  words  in  a  hurried  manner, 
looking  towards  the  Prince,  and  catching  hold  with  her  hand  of  the 
arm  of  her  chair.  He  advanced  still  nearer  towards  it;  he  began  to 
speak  very  rapidly-;  I  caught  the  words,  'Father,  blessing,  forgive- 
ness,'— and  then  presently  the  Prince  fell  on  his  knees;  took  from 
his  breast  a  paper  he  had  there,  handed  it  to  the  Queen,  who,  as 
soon  as  she  saw  it,  flung  up  both  her  arms  with  a  scream,  and  took 
away  that  hand  nearest  the  Prince,  and  which  he  endeavoured  to 
kiss.  He  went  on  speaking  with  great  animation  of  gesture,  now 
clasping  his  hands  together  on  his  heart,  now  opening  them  as 
though  to  say:  'I  am  here,  your  brother,  in  your  power.'  Lady 
Masham  ran  round  on  the  other  side  of  the  chair,  kneeling  too.  and 
speaking  with  great  energy.  She  clasped  the  Queen's  hand  on  her 
side,  and  picked  up  the  paper  her  Majesty  had  let  fall.  The  Prince 
rose  and  made  a  further  speech  as  though  he  would  go;  the 
favourite  on  the  other  hand  urging  her  mistress,  and  then,  running 
back  to  the  Prince,  brought  him  back  once  more  close  to  the  chair. 
Again  he  knelt  down  and  took  the  Queen's  hand,  which  she  did  not 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND  505 

withdraw,  kissing  it  a  hundred  times;  my  Lady  all  the  time,  with 
sobs  and  supplications,  speaking  over  the  chair.  This  while  the 
Queen  sat  with  a  stupefied  look,  crumpling  the  paper  with  one 
hand,  as  my  Prince  embraced  the  other;  then  of  a  sudden  she 
uttered  several  piercing  shrieks,  and  burst  into  a  great  fit  of 
hysteric  tears  and  laughter.  'Enough,  enough,  sir,  for  this  time,'  I 
heard  Lady  Masham  say :  and  the  chairman,  who  had^  withdrawn 
round  the  Banqueting-room,  came  back,  alarmed  by^  the  cries. 
'Quick,'  says  Lady  Masham,  'get  some  help,'  and  I  ran  towards  the 
Doctor,  who,  with  the  Bishop  of  Rochester,  came  up  instantly. 
Lady  Masham  whispered  the  Prince  he  might  hope  for  the  very 
best  and  to  be  ready  to-morrow ;  and  he  hath  gone  away  to  the 
Bishop  of  Rochester's  house  to  meet  several  of  his  friends  there. 
And  so  the  great  stroke  is  struck,"  says  Beatrix,  going  down  on 
her  knees,  and  clasping  her  hands.  "God  save  the  King!  God  save 
the  King!" 

Beatrix's  tale  told,  and  the  young  lady  herself  calmed  somewhat 
of  her  agitation,  we  asked  with  regard  to  the  Prince,  who  was 
absent  with  Bishop  Atterbury,  and  were  informed  that  'twas  likely 
he  might  remain  abroad  the  whole  day.  Beatrix's  three  kinsfolk 
looked  at  one  another  at  this  intelligence:  'twas  clear  the  same 
thought  was  passing  through  the  minds  of  all. 

But  who  should  begin  to  break  the  news?  Monsieur  Baptiste, 
that  is  Frank  Castlewood,  turned  very  red,  and  looked  towards 
Esmond;  the  Colonel  bit  his  lips,  and  fairly  beat  a  retreat  into  the 
window:  it  was  Lady  Castlewood  that  opened  upon  Beatrix  with 
the  news  which  we  knew  would  do  anything  but  please  her. 

"We  are  glad,"  says  she,  taking  her  daughter's  hand,  and 
speaking  in  a  gentle  voice,  "that  the  guest  is  away." 

Beatrix  drew  back  in  an  instant,  looking  round  her  at  us  three, 
and  as  if  divining  a  danger.  "Why  glad?"  says  she,  her  breast 
beginning  to  heave;  "are  you  so  soon  tired  of  him?" 

"We  think  one  of  us  is  devilishly  too  fond  of  him,"  cries  out 
Frank  Castlewood 

"And  which  is  it — you,  my  Lord,  or  is  it  mamma,  who  is  jealous 


506  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

because  he  drinks  my  health?  or  is  it  the  head  of  the  family"  (here 
she  turned  with  an  imperious  look  towards  Colonel  Esmond),  ''who 
has  taken  of  late  to  preach  the  King  sermons"?"' 

"We  do  not  say  you  are  too  free  with  his  Majesty." 

"I  thank  you,  madam,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  the  head 
and  a  curtsey. 

But  her  mother  continued,  with  very  great  calmness  and  dig- 
nity: "At  least  we  have  not  said  so,  though  we  might,  were  it 
possible  for  a  mother  to  say  such  words  to  her  own  daughter,  your 
father's  daughter."' 

''Eh9  monpere,'"  breaks  out  Beatrix,  "was  no  better  than  other 
persons'  fathers."     And  again  she  looked  towards  the  Colonel. 

We  all  felt  a  shock  as  she  uttered  those  two  or  three  French 
words;  her  manner  was  exactly  imitated  from  that  of  our  foreign 
guest. 

"You  had  not  learned  to  speak  French  a  month  ago,  Beatrix,"' 
says  her  mother  sadly,  "nor  to  speak  ill  of  your  father."' 

Beatrix,  no  doubt,  saw  that  slip  she  had  made  in  her  flurry,  for 
she  blushed  crimson:  "I  have  learnt  to  honour  the  King,"  says  she, 
drawing  up,  "and  'twere  as  well  that  others  suspected  neither  his 
Majesty  nor  me. ' 

"If  you  respected  your  mother  a  little  more,'"  Frank  said,  "Trix, 
you  would  do  yourself  no  hurt."' 

"I  am  no  child,"  says  she,  turning  round  on  him;  "we  have 
lived  very  well  these  five  years  without  the  benefit  of  your  advice 
or  example,  and  I  intend  to  take  neither  now.  Why  does  not  the 
head  of  the. house  speak?"  she  went  on;  "he  rules  everything  here. 
When  his  chaplain  has  done  singing  the  psalms,  will  his  Lordship 
deliver  the  sermon?  I  am  tired  of  the  psalms.*'  The  Prince  had 
used  almost  the  very  same  words  in  regard  to  Colonel  Esmond  that 
the  imprudent  girl  repeated  in  her  wrath. 

'You  show  yourself  a  very  apt  scholar,  madam, ' '  says  the  Colonel ; 
and,  turning  to  his  mistress,  "Did  your  guest  use  these  words  in 
your  Ladyship's  hearing,  or  was  it  to  Beatrix  in  private  that  he  was 
pleased  to  impart  his  opinion  regarding  my  tiresome  sermon?  " 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  507 

"Have  you  seen  him  alone?"  cries  my  Lord,  starting  up  with  an 
oath:  "by  God,  have  you  seen  him  alone?'' 

'Were  he  here,  you  wouldn't  dare  so  to  insult  me;  no,  you 
would  not  dare!"  cries  Frank's  sister.  "Keep  your  oaths,  my 
Lord,  for  your  wife ;  we  are  not  used  here  to  such  language.  Till 
you  came,  there  used  to  be  kindness  between  me  and  mamma,  and 
I  cared  for  her  when  you  never  did,  w-hen  you  were  away  for  years 
with  your  horses  and  your  mistress,  and  your  Popish  wife." 

"By ,"  says  my  Lord,  rapping  out  another  oath,  "Clotilda  is 

an  angel ;  how  dare  you  say  a  word  against  Clotilda?" 

Colonel  Esmond  could  not  refrain  from  a  smile,  to  see  how  easy 
Frank's  attack  was  drawn  off  by  that  feint.  "I  fancy  Clotilda  is 
not  the  subject  in  hand,"  says  Mr.  Esmond,  rather  scornfully;  "her 
Ladyship  is  at  Paris,  a  hundred  leagues  off,  preparing  baby-linen. 
It  is  about  my  Lord  Castlewood's  sister,  and  not  his  wife,  the 
question  is." 

"He  is  not  my  Lord  Castlewood,"  says  Beatrix,  "and  he  knows 
lie  is  not;  he  is  Colonel  Francis  Esmond's  son,  and  no  more,  and  he 
wears  a  false  title;  and  he  lives  on  another  man's  land,  and  he 
knows  it."  Here  was  another  desperate  sally  of  the  poor 
beleaguered  garrison,  and  an  alerte  in  another  quarter. 

"Again,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Esmond.  "If  there  are  no 
proofs  of  my  claim,  I  have  no  claim.  If  my  father  acknowledged 
no  heir,  yours  was  his  lawful  successor,  and  my  Lord  Castlewood 
hath  as  good  a  right  to  his  rank  and  small  estate  as  any  man  in 
England.  But  that  again  is  not  the  question,  as  you  know  very 
^vell ;  let  us  bring  our  talk  back  to  it,  as  you  will  have  me  meddle 
in  it.  And  I  will  give  you  frankly  my  opinion,  that  a  house  where 
a  Prince  lies  all  day,  who  respects  no  woman,  is  no  house  for  a 
young  unmarried  lady ;  that  you  were  better  in  the  country  than 
liere;  that  he  is  here  on  a  great  end,  from  which  no  folly  should 
divert  him;  and  that  having  nobly  done  your  part  of  this  morning, 
Beatrix,  you  should  retire  off  the  scene  a  while,  and  leave  it  to  the 
other  actors  of  the  play." 

As  the  Colonel  spoke  with  a  perfect  calmness  and  politeness. 


508  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

such  as  'tis  to  be  hoped  he  hath  always  shown  to  women,'  his  mis- 
ti'viss  stood  b}'  him  on  one  side  of  the  table,  and  Frank  Castlewood 
on  the  other,  hemming  in  poor  Beatrix,  that  was  behind  it,  and,  as 
it  were,  surrounding  her  with  our  approaches. 

Having  twice  sallied  out  and  been  beaten  back,  she  now,  as  I 
expected,  tried  the  ultima  ratio  of  women,  and  had  recourse  to 
tears.  Her  beautiful  eves  filled  with  them ;  I  never  could  bear  in 
her,  nor  in  any  woman,  that  expression  of  pain: — "I  am  alone,'' 
sobbed  she;  "you  are  three  against  me — my  brother,  my  mother, 
and  you.  What  have  I  done,  that  you  should  speak  and  look  so 
unkindly  at  me?  Is  it  my  fault  that  the  Prince  should,  as  you  say, 
admire  me?  Did  I  bring  him  here?  Did  I  do  aught  but  what  you 
bade  me,  in  making  him  welcome?  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  our 
dutj'  "was  to  die  for  him?  Did  you  not  teach  me,  mother,  night  and 
morning  to  pray  for  the  King,  before  even  ourselves?  What  would 
you  have  of  me,  cousin,  for  you  are  the  chief  of  the  conspiracy  against 
me ;  I  know  you  are,  sir,  and  that  my  mother  and  brother  are  act- 
ing but  as  you  bid  them:  whither  would  you  have  me  go?"' 

''I  would  but  remove  from  the  Prince,"  says  Esmond  gravely, 
"a  dangerous  temptation.  Heaven  forbid  I  should  say  you  would 
yield :  I  would  only  have  him  free  of  it.  Your  honour  needs  no 
guardian,  please  God,  but  his  imprudence  doth.  He  is  so  far 
removed  from  all  women  by  his  rank,  that  his  pursuit  of  them  can- 
not but  be  unlawful.  We  would  remove  the  dearest  and  fairest  of 
our  family  from  the  chance  of  that  insult,  and  that  is  why  we 
would  have  you  go,  dear  Beatrix." 

1  My  dear  father  saitli  quite  truly,  that  his  manner  towards  our  sex  was 
uniformly  courteous.  From  my  infancy  upwards,  he  treated  me  with  an  extreme 
gentleness,  as  though  I  was  a  little  lady.  I  can  scarce  remember  (though  I  tried 
him  often)  ever  hearing  a  rough  word  from,  him,  nor  was  he  less  grave  and  kind 
in  his  manner  to  the  humblest  negresses  on  his  estate.  He  was  familiar  with  no 
one  except  my  mother,  and  it  was  delight! al  to  witness  up  to  the  very  last  days 
the  confidence  betv/een  them.  He  was  obeyed  eagerly  by  all  under  him  ;.aud  my 
mother  and  all  her  household  lived  in  a  constant  emulation  to  please  him,  and 
quite  a  terror  lest  in  any  way  they  shotiid  offend  him.  He  was  the  humblest  man, 
v.-ith  all  this;  the  least  exacting,  the  most  easily  contented ;  and  Mr.  Benson,  our 
rninister  at  Castlewood,  who  attended  him  at  the  last,  ever  said:  "I  know  not 
v.-hat  Colonel  Esmond's  doctrine  was,  but  his  life  and  death  were  those  of  a 
devout  Christian."— R.  E.  W. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  509 

"Harry  speaks  like  a  book,"  says  Frank,  with  one  of  his  oaths, 

"and,  by ,  every  word  he  saith  is  true.     You  can't  help  being 

handsome,  Trix ;  no  more  can  the  Prince  help  following  you.  My 
counsel  is  that  you  go  out  of  harm's  way ;  for,  by  the  Lord,  were 
the  Prince  to  play  any  tricks  with  you,  King  as  he  is,  or  is  to  be, 
Harry  Esmond  and  I  would  have  justice  of  him." 

"Are  not  two  such  champions  enough  to  guard  me?"  says 
Beatrix,  something  sorrowfully;  "sure  with  you  two  watching,  no 
evil  could  happen  to  me." 

"In  faith,  I  think  not,  Beatrix,"  says  Colonel  Esmond;  "nor  if 
the  Prince  knew  us  would  he  try." 

"But  does  he  know  you?"  interposed  Lady  'Castlewood,  very 
quiet:  "he  comes  of  a  country  where  the  pursuit  of  kings  is  thought 
no  dishonour  to  a  woman.  Let  us  go,  dearest  Beatrix !  Shall  we  go 
to  Walcote  or  to  Castlewood?  We  are  best  away  from  the  city;  and 
when  the  Prince  is  acknowledged,  and  our  champions  have  restored 
him,  and  he  hath  his  own  house  at  St.  James's  or  Windsor,  we  can 
come  back  to  ours  here.    Do  you  not  think  so,  Harry  and  Frank?" 

Frank  and  Harry  thought  with  her,  you  may  be  sure. 

"We  will  go,  then,"  says  Beatrix,  turning  a  little  pale;  "Lady 
Masham  is  to  give  me  warning  to-night  how  her  Majesty  is,  and 
to-morrow ' ' 

"I  think  we  had  best  go  to-day,  my  dear,"  says  my  Lady  Castle- 
wood; "we  might  have  the  coach  and  sleep  at  Hounslow,  and  reach 
home  to-morrow.  'Tis  twelve  o'clock;  bid  the  coach,  cousin,  be 
ready  at  one." 

"For  shame!"  burs^  out  Beatrix,  in  a  passion  of  tears  and  morti- 
fication. "You  disgrace  me  by  your  cruel  precautions;  my  own 
mother  is  the  first  to  suspect  me,  and  would  take  me  away  as  my 
gaoler.  I  will  not  go  with  you,  mother;  I  will  go  as  no  one's 
prisoner.  If  I  wanted  to  deceive,  do  you  think  I  could  find  no 
means  of  evading  you?  My  family  suspects  me.  As  those  mistrust 
me  that  ought  to  love  me  most,  let  me  leave  them;  I  will  go,  but  I 
will  go  alone :  to  Castlewood,  be  it.  I  have  been  unhappy  there 
and  lonely  enough ;  let  me  go  back,  but  spare  me  at  least  the  humil- 


510  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

iation  of  setting  a  watch  over  my  misery,  which  is  a  trial  I  can't 
bear.  Let  me  go  when  you  will,  but  alone,  or  not  at  all.  You 
three  can  stay  and  triumph  over  my  unhappiness,  and  1  will  bear 
it  as  I  have  borne  it  before.  Let  my  gaoler-in- chief  go  order  the 
coach  that  is  to  take  me  away.  I  thank  you,  Henry  Esmond,  for 
your  share  in  the  conspiracy.  AH  my  life  long  I'll  thank  you,  and 
remember  you,  and  you,  brother,  and  you,  mother,  hovr  shall  I  show 
my  gratitude  to  you  for  your  careful  defence  of  my  honour?' 

She  swept  out  of  the  room  with  the  air  of  an  empress,  flinging 
glances  of  defiance  at  us  all,  and  leaving  us  conquerors  of  the  field, 
but  scared,  and  almost  ashamed  of  our  victory.  It  did  indeed  seem 
hard  and  cruel  that  we  three  should  have  conspired  the  banishment 
and  humiliation  of  that  fair  creature.  We  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence ;  'twas  not  the  first  stroke  by  many  of  our  actions  in  that 
unlucky  time,  which,  being  done,  we  wished  undone.  "We  agreed 
it  was  best  she  should  go  alone,  speaking  stealthily  to  one  another, 
and  under  our  breaths,  like  persons  engaged  in  an  act  they  felt 
ashamed  in  doing. 

In  a  half -hour,  it  might  be,  after  our  talk  she  came  back,  her 
countenance  wearing  the  same  defiant  air  which  it  had  borne  when 
she  left  us.  She  held  a  shagreen  case  in  her  hand ;  Esmond  knew 
it  as  containing  his  diamonds  which  he  had  given  to  her  for  her 
marriage  with  Duke  Hamilton,  and  which  she  had  worn  so  splen- 
didly on  the  inauspicious  night  of  the  Prince's  arrival.  "I  have 
brought  back,"  says  she,  "to  the  Marquis  of  Esmond  the  present  he 
deigned  to  make  me  in  days  when  he  trusted  me  better  than  now. 
I  will  never  accept  a  benefit  or  a  kindness  from  Henry  Esmond 
more,  and  I  give  back  these  family  diamonds,  which  belonged  to 
one  King's  mistress,  to  the  gentleman  that  suspected  I  would  be 
another.  Have  you  been  upon  your  message  of  coach-caller,  my 
Lord  Marquis?  Will  you  send  your  valet  to  see  that  I  do  not  run 
away?"  We  were  right,  yet,  by  her  manner,  she  had  put  us  all  in 
the  wrong;  we  were  conquerors,  yet  the  honours  of  the  day 
seemed  to  be  with  the  poor  oppressed  girl. 

That  luckless  box  containing  the  stones  had  first  been  ornamented 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  5U 

with  a  Baron's  coronet,  when  Beatrix  was  engaged  to  the  young 
gentleman  from  whom  she  parted,  and  afterwards  the  gilt  crown 
of  a  Duchess  figured  on  the  cover,  which  also  poor  Beatrix  was 
destined  never  to  wear.  Lady  Castlewood  opened  the  case  mechan- 
ically and  scarce  thinking  what  she  did;  and,  behold,  besides  the 
diamonds,  Esmond's  present,  there  lay  in  the  box  the  enamelled 
miniature  of  the  late  Duke,  which  Beatrix  had  laid  aside  with  her 
mourning  when  the  King  came  into  the  house;  and  which  the  poor 
heedless  thing  very  likely  had  forgotten. 

"Do  you  leave  this,  too,  Beatrix?"  says  her  mother,  taking  the 
miniature  out,  and  with  a  cruelty  she  did  not  very  often  show;  but 
tliere  are  some  naoments  when  the  tenderest  women  are  cruel,  and 
some  triumphs  which  angels  can't  forego.^ 

Having  delivered  this  stab,  Lady  Castlewood  was  frightened  at 
the  effect  of  her  blow.  It  went  to  poor  Beatrix's  heart:  she  flushed 
up  and  passed  a  handkerchief  across  her  eyes,  and  kissed  the  min- 
iature, and  put  it  into  her  bosom: — "I  had  forgot  it, "  says  she ; 
"my  injury  made  me  forget  my  grief:  my  mother  has  recalled  both 
tome.  Farewell,  mother;  I  think  I  never  can  forgive  you ;  some- 
thing hath  broke  between  us  that  no  tears  nor  years  can  repair.  I 
always  said  I  was  alone:  you  never  loved  me,  never — and  were 
jealous  of  me  from  the  time  I  sat  on  my  father's  knee.  Let  me  go 
away,  the  sooner  the  better:  I  can  bear  to  be  with  you  no  more." 

"Go,  child,"  says  her  mother,  still  very  stern;  "go  and  bend 
your  proud  knees  and  ask  forgiveness;  go,  pray  in  solitude  for 
humility  and  repentance.  'Tis  not  your  reproaches  that  make  me 
unhappy,  'tis  your  hard  heart,  my  poor  Beatrix :  may  God  soften  it, 
and  teach  you  one  day  to  feel  for  your  mother. ' 

If  my  mistress  was  cruel,  at  least  she  never  could  be  got  to  own 

as  much.     Her  haughtiness  quite  overtopped  Beatrix's;  and,  if  the 

girl   had   a  proud   spirit,    I   very   much   fear   it   came  to   her   by 

inheritance. 

1  This  remark  shows  how  unjustly  aud  contemptuouslj-eveu  the  best  of  men 
•will  sometimes  jtidge  of  our  sex.  Lady  Castlewood  had  no  intention  of  triumph- 
ing over  her  datighter;  but  from  a  sense  of  duty  alone  pointed  out  her  deplor- 
able wrong.— R.  E. 


CHAPTER  XI 

OUR  GUEST   QUITS   US   AS   NOT  BEING   HOSPITABLE   ENOUGH 

Beatrix's  departure  took  place  within  an  honr,  her  maid  going 
with  her  in  the  post-chaise,  and  a  man  armed  on  the  coach-box  to 
prevent  any  danger  of  the  road.  Esmond  and  Frank  thought  of 
escorting  the  carriage,  but  she  indignantly  refused  their  company, 
and  another  man  was  sent  to  follow  the  coach,  and  not  to  leave  it 
till  it  had  passed  over  Hounslow  Heath  on  the  next  day.  And 
these  two  forming  the  whole  of  Lady  Castlewood's  male  domestics, 
Mr.  Esmond's  faithful  John  Lockwood  came  to  wait  on  his  mistress 
during  their  absence,  though  he  would  have  preferred  to  escort 
Mrs.  Lucy,  his  sweetheart,  on  her  journey  into  the  country. 

"We  had  a  gloomy  and  silent  meal;  it  seemed  as  if  a  darkness 
was  over  the  house,  since  the  bright  face  of  Beatrix  had  been  with- 
drawn from  it.  In  the  afternoon  came  a  message  from  the  favour- 
ite to  relieve  us  somewhat  from  this  despondency.  "The  Queen 
hath  been  much  shaken,"  the  note  said;  "she  is  better  now,  and  all 
things  will  go  well.  Let  my  Lord  Castleicood  be  ready  against  we 
send  for  him.'' 

At  night  there  came  a  second  billet:  "There  hath  been  a  great 
battle  in  Council ;  Lord  Treasurer  hath  broke  his  staff,  and  hath 

fallen  never  to  rise  again ;  no  successor  is  appointed.     Lord  B 

receives  a  great  Whig  company  to-night  at  Golden  Square.  If  he 
is  trimming,  others  are  true ;  the  Queen  hath  no  more  fits,  but  is 
abed  now,  and  more  quiet.  Be  ready  against  morning,  when  I 
still  hope  all  will  be  well." 

The  Prince  came  home  shortly  after  the  messenger  who  bore 
this  billet  had  left  the  house.  His  Royal  Highness  was  so  much  the 
better  for  the  Bishop's  liquor,  that  to  talk  affairs  to  him  now  was 
of  little  service.    He  was  helped  to  the  Royal  bed ;  he  called  Castle- 

512 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  513 

wood  familiarly  by  his  own  name ;  he  quite  forgot  the  part  upon 
the  acting  of  which  his  crown,  his  safety,  depended.  'Twas  lucky 
that  ray  Lady  Castlewood's  servants  were  out  of  the  way,  and  only 
those  heard  him  who  would  not  betray  him.  He  inquired  after  the 
adorable  Beatrix,  with  a  Royal  hiccup  in  his  voice;  he  was  easily 
got  to  bed,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  plunged  in  that  deep  slumber 
and  forgetfulness  with  which  Bacchus  rewards  the  votaries  of  that' 
god.  We  wished  Beatrix  had  been  there  to  see  him  in  his  cups. 
We  regretted,  perhaps,  that  she  was  gone. 

One  of  the  party  at  Kensington  Square  was  fool  enough  to  ride 
to  Hounslow  that  night,  coram  latronibus,  and  to  the  inn  which  the 
family  used  ordinarily  in  their  journeys  out  of  London.  Esmond 
desired  my  landlord  not  to  acquaint  Madam  Beatrix  with  his  com- 
ing, and  had  the  grim  satisfaction  of  passing  by  the  door  of  the 
chamber  where  she  lay  with  her  maid,  and  of  watching  her  chariot 
set  forth  in  the  early  morning.  He  saw^  her  smile  and  slip  money 
into  the  man's  hand  who  was  ordered  to  ride  behind  the  coach  as 
far  as  Bagshot.  The  road  being  open,  and  the  other  servant  armed, 
it  appeared  she  dispensed  with  the  escort  of  a  second  domestic ;  and 
this  fellow^,  bidding  his  young  mistress  adieu  wuth  many  bows, 
went  and  took  a  pot  of  ale  in  the  kitchen,  and  returned  in  company 
with  his  brother  servant,  John  Coachman,  and  his  horses,  back  to 
London. 

They  were  not  a  mile  out  of  Hounslow  when  the  two  worthies 
stopped  for  more  drink,  and  here  they  were  scared  by  seeing  Colonel 
Esmond  gallop  by  them.  The  man  said  in  reply  to  Colonel  Esmond's 
stern  question,  that  his  young  mistress  had  sent  her  duty;  only 
that,  no  other  message:  she  had  had  a  very  good  night,  and  would 
reach  Castlew^ood  by  nightfall.  The  Colonel  had  no  time  for  fur- 
ther colloquy,  and  galloped  on  swiftly  to  London,  having  business 
of  great  importance  there,  as  my  reader  very  well  knoweth.  The 
thought  of  Beatrix  riding  away  from  the  danger  soothed  his  mind 
not  a  little.  His  horse  was  at  Kensington  Square  (honest  Dapple 
knew  the  way  thither  well  enough)  before  the  tipsy  guest  of  last 
night  was  awake  and  sober^ 


514  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

The  account  of  the  previous  evening  was  known  all  over  the 
town  early  next  day.  A  violent  altercation  had  taken  j^lace 
before  the  Queen  in  the  Council  Chamber;  and  all  the  coffee-liouses 
iiad  their  version  of  the  quarrel.  The  news  brought  my  Lord 
Bishop  early  to  Kensington  Square,  where  he  awaited  the  waking 
of  his  Royal  master  above  stairs,  and  spoke  confidently  of  having 
him  proclaimed  as  Prince  of  Wales  and  heir  to  the  throne  before 
that  day  was  over.  The  Bishop  had  entertained  on  the  previous 
afternoon  certain  of  the  most  influential  gentlemen  of  the  true 
British  party.  His  Royal  Highness  had  charmed  all,  both  Scots  and 
English,  Papists  and  Churchmen:  "Even  Quakers,''  says  he,  'Svere 
at  our  meeting;  and,  if  the  stranger  took  a  little  too  much  British 
punch  and  ale,  he  will  soon  grow  more  accustomed  to  those 
liquors;  and  my  Lord  Castlewood,"'  says  the  Bishop  with  a  laugh, 
"must  bear  the  cruel  charge  of  having  been  for  once  in  his  life  a 
little  tipsy.  He  toasted  your  lovely  sister  a  dozen  times,  at  which 
we  all  laughed,"  says  the  Bishop,  "admiring  so  much  fraternal 
affection— Where  is  that  charming  nymph,  and  why  doth  she  not 
adorn  your  Ladyship's  tea-table  with  her  bright  eyes?" 

Her  Ladyship  said  drily,  that  Beatrix  was  not  at  home  that 
morning;  my  Lord  Bishop  was  too  busy  with  great  affairs  to 
trouble  himself  much  about  the  presence  or  absence  of  anj^  lady, 
liowever  beautiful. 

We  were  yet  at  table  when  Dr.  A came  from  the  Palace 

with  a  look  of  great  alarm;  the  shocks  the  Queen  had  had  the  day 
before  had  acted  on  her  severely;  he  had  been  sent  for  and  had 
ordered  her  to  be  blooded.  The  surgeon  of  Long  Acre  had  come  to 
cup  the  Queen,  and  her  Majesty  was  now  more  easy  and  breathed 
more  freely.  Wliat  made  us  start  at  the  name  of  Mr,  Ayme?  "II 
faut  etre  aimable  pour  etre  aime,"  says  the  merry  Doctor;  Esmond 
pulled  his  sleeve,  and  bade  him  hush.  It  was  to  Ayme's  house, 
after  his  fatal  duel,  that  my  dear  Lord  Castlewood,  Frank's  father, 
had  been  carried  to  die. 

No  second  visit  could  be  paid  to  the  Queen  on  that  day  at  any 
fate;  and  when  our  guest  above  gave  his  signal  that  he  was  awake,. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  515 

the  Doctor,  tlie  Bishop,  and  Colonel  Esmond  waited  upon  the 
Prince's  levee,  and  brought  him  their  news,  cheerful  or  dubious. 
The  Doctor  had  to  go  away  presently,  but  promised  to  keep  the 
Prince  constantly  acquainted  with  what  was  taking  place  at  the 
Palace  hard  by.  His  counsel  was,  and  the  Bishop's,  that  as  soon  as 
ever  the  Queen's  malady  took  a  favourable  turn,  the  Prince  should 
be  introduced  to  her  bedside;  the  Council  summoned;  the  guard  at 
Kensington  and  St.  James's,  of  which  two  regiments  were  to  be 
entirely  relied  on,  and  one  known  not  to  be  hostile,  would  declare 
for  the  Prince,  as  the  Queen  would  before  the  Lords  of  her  Council, 
designating  him  as  the  heir  to  her  throne. 

With  locked  doors,  and  Colonel  Esmond  acting  as  secretary,  the 
Prince  and  his  Lordship  of  Rochester  passed  many  hours  of  this 
day,  composing  Proclamations  and  Addresses  to  the  Country,  to 
the  Scots,  to  the  Clergy,  to  the  People  of  London  and  England ; 
announcing  the  arrival  of  the  exile  descendant  of  three  Sovereigns, 
and  his  acknowledgment  by  his  sister  as  heir  to  the  throne.  Every 
safeguard  for  their  liberties,  the  Church  and  people  could  ask,  was 
promised  to  them.  The  Bishop  could  answer  for  the  adhesion  of 
very  many  prelates,  who  besought  of  their  flocks  and  brother 
ecclesiastics  to  recognise  the  sacred  right  of  the  future  Sovereign 
and  to  purge  the  country  of  the  sin  of  rebellion. 

During  the  composition  of  these  papers  more  messengers  than 
one  came  from  the  Palace  regarding  the  state  of  the  august  patient 
there  lying.  At  mid-day  she  was  somewhat  better ;  at  evening  the 
torpor  again  seized  her  and  she  wandered  in  her  mind.  At  night 
Dr.  A was  with  us  again,  with  a  report  rather  more  favour- 
able; no  instant  danger  at  any  rate  was  apprehended.  In  the 
course  of  the  last  two  years  her  Majesty  had  had  many  attacks  sim- 
ilar, but  more  severe. 

By  this  time  we  had  finished  a  half-dozen  of  Proclamations  (the 
wording  of  them  so  as  to  offend  no  parties,  and  not  to  give  umbrage 
to  "Whigs  or  Dissenters,  required  very  great  caution),  and  the  young 
Prince,  who  had  indeed  shown,  during  a  long  day's  labour,  both 
alacrity  at  seizing  the  information  given  him,  and  ingenuity  and 


516  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

skill  in  turning  the  phrases  which  were  to  go  out  signed  by  his 
name,  here  exhibited  a  good-humour  and  thoughtfulness  that 
ought  to  be  set  down  to  his  credit. 

"Were  these  papers  to  be  mislaid,"  says  he,  * 'or  our  scheme  to 
come  to  mishap,  my  Lord  Esmond's  writing  would  bring  him  to  a 
place  where  I  heartily  hope  never  to  see  him ;  and  so,  by  your  leave, 
I  will  copy  the  papers  myself,  though  I  am  not  very  strong  in 
spelling ;  and  if  they  are  found  they  will  implicate  none  but  the 
person  they  most  concern;"  and  so,  having  carefully  copied  the 
Proclamations  out,  the  Prince  burned  those  in  Colonel  Esmond's 
handwriting:  "And  now,  and  now,  gentlemen,"  says  he,  "let  us 
go  to  supper,  and  drink  a  glass  with  the  ladies.  My  Lord  Esmond, 
you  will  sup  with  us  to-night ;  you  have  given  us  of  late  too  littJe 
of  your  company." 

The  Prince's  meals  were  commonly  served  m  the  chamber 
which  had  been  Beatrix's  bedroom,  adjoining  that  in  which  he 
slept.  And  the  dutiful  practice  of  his  entertainers  was  to  wait 
until  their  Royal  .guest  bade  them  take  their  places  at  table  before 
they  sat  down  to  partake  of  the  meal.  On  this  night,  as  you  may 
suppose,  only  Frank  Castlewood  and  his  mother  were  in  waiting 
when  the  supper  was  announced  to  receive  the  Prince ;  who  had 
passed  the  whole  of  the  day  in  his  own  apartment,  with  the  Bishop 
as  his  Minister  of  State,  and  Colonel  Esmond  officiating  as  Secretary 
of  his  Council. 

The  Prince's  countenance  wore  an  expression  by  no  means 
pleasant,  when  looking  towards  the  little  company  assembled,  and 
waiting  for  him,  he  did  not  see  Beatrix's  bright  face  there  as  usual 
to  greet  him.  He  asked  Lady  Esmond  for  his  fair  introducer  of 
yesterday:  her  Ladyship  only  cast  her  eyes  down,  and  said 
quietly,  Beatrix  could  not  be  of  the  supper  that  night ;  nor  did  she 
show  the  least  sign  of  confusion,  whereas  Castlewood  turned  red, 
and  Esmond  was  no  less  embarrassed.  I  think  women  have  an 
instinct  of  dissimulation;  they  know  by  nature  how  to  disguise 
their  emotions  far  better  than  the  most  consummate  male  corn-tiers 
can  do.     Is  not  the  better  part  of  the  life  of  many  of  them  spent  in 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  517 

hiding  their  feelings,  in  cajoling  their  tyrants,  in  masking  over 
with  fond  smiles  and  artful  gaiety  their  doubt,  or  their  grief,  or 
their  terror? 

Our  guest  swallowed  his  supper  very  sulkily ;  it  was  not  till  the 
second  bottle  his  Highness  began  to  rally.  When  Lady  Castlewood 
asked  leave  to  depart,  he  sent  a  message  to  Beatrix,  hoiking  she 
would  be  present  at  the  next  day's  dinner,  and  applied  himself  to 
drink,  and  to  talk  afterwards,  for  which  there  v/as  subject  in 
plenty. 

The  next  day,  we  heard  from  our  informer  at  Kensington  tliat 
the  Queen  was  somewhat  better,  and  had  been  up  for  an  hour, 
though  she  was  not  well  enough  yet  to  receive  any  visitor. 

At  dinner  a  single  cover  v/as  laid  for  his  Royal  Highness ;  and 
the  two  gentlemen  alone  waited  on  him.  We  had  had  a  consulta- 
tion in  the  morning  with  Lady  Castlewood,  in  which  it  had  been 
determined  that,  should  his  Highness  ask  further  questions  about 
Beatrix,  he  should  be  answered  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  house. 

He  was  evidently  disturbed  and  uneasy,  looking  towards  the 
door  constantly,  as  if  expecting  some  one.  There  came,  however, 
nobody,  except  honest  John  Lockwood,  when  he  knocked,  with  a 
dish,  which  those  within  took  from  him ;  so  the  meals  were  always 
arranged,  and  I  believe  the  council  in  the  kitchen  were  of  opinion 
that  my  young  lord  had  brought  over  a  priest,  who  had  converted 
us  all  into  Papists,  and  that  Papists  were  like  Jews,  eating  together, 
and  not  choosing  to  take  their  meals  in  the  sight  of  Christians. 

The  Prince  tried  to  cover  his  displeasure :  he  was  but  a  clumsy 
dissembler  at  that  time,  and  when  out  of  humour  could  with  diffi- 
culty keep  a  serene  countenance ;  and  having  made  some  foolish 
attemi3ts  at  trivial  talk,  lie  came  to  his  point  presently,  and  in  as 
easy  a  manner  as  he  could,  saying  to  Lord  Castlewood,  he  hoped, 
he  requested,  his  Lordship's  mother  and  sister  would  be  of  the 
supper  that  night.  As  the  time  hung  heavy  on  him,  and  he  must 
not  go  abroad,  would  not  Miss  Beatrix  hold  him  company  at  a 
game  of  cards? 

At  this,  looking  up  at  Esmond,  and  taking  the  signal  from  him, 


518  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Lord  Castlewood  informed  his  Royal  Highness'  that  his  sister 
Beatrix  was  not  at  Kensington ;  and  that  her  family  had  thought 
it  best  she  should  quit  the  town. 

"Not  at  Kensington!"  says  he.  "Is  she  ill?  she  was  well  yester- 
day ;  wherefore  should  she  quit  the  town?  Is  it  at  your  orders,  my 
Lord,  or  Colonel  Esmond's,  who  seems  the  master  of  this 
house?" 

"Not  of  this,  sir,"  says  Frank  very  nobly,  "only  of  our  house  in 
the  country,  which  he  hath  given  to  us.  This  is  my  mother's 
house,  and  Walcote  is  my  father's,  and  the  Marquis  of  Esmond 
knows  he  hath  but  to  give  his  word,  and  I  return  his  to  him." 

"The  Marquis  of  Esmond! — the  Marquis  of  Esmond,"  says  the 
Prince,  tossing  off  a  glass,  "meddles  too  much  with  my  affairs,  and 
presumes  on  the  service  he  hath  done  me.  If  you  want  to  carry 
your  suit  with  Beatrix,  my  Lord,  by  locking  her  up  in  gaol,  let  me 
tell  you  that  is  not  the  way  to  win  a  woman. ' 

"I  was  not  aware,  sir,  that  I  had  spoken  of  my  suit  to  Madam 
Beatrix  to  your  Royal  Highness." 

"Bah,  bah,  monsieur!  we  need  not  be  a  conjurer  to  see  that.  It 
makes  itself  seen  at  all  moments.  You  are  jealous,  my  Lord,  and 
the  Maid  of  Honour  cannot  look  at  another  face  without  yours 
beginning  to  scowl.  That  which  you  do  is  unworthy,  monsieur;  is 
inhospitable — is,  is  lache,  yes,  lache"  (he  spoke  rapidly  in  French, 
his  rage  carrying  him  away  with  each  phrase):  "I  come  to  your 
house;  I  risk  my  life;  I  pass  it  in  ennui;  I  repose  myself  on  your 
fidelity;  I  have  no  company  but  your  Lordship's  sermons  or  the 
conversations  of  that  adorable  young  lady,  and  you  take  her  from 
me,  and  you,  you  rest !  Merci,  monsieur !  I  shall  thank  you  when 
I  have  the  means ;  I  shall  know  to  recompense  a  devotion  a  little 
importunate,  my  Lord — a  little  importunate.  For  a  month  past 
your  airs  of  protector  have  annoyed  me  beyond  measure.  You 
deign  to  offer  me  the  crown,  and  bid  me  take  it  on  my  knees  like 
King  John — eh!     I  know  my  history,  monsieur,  and  mock  mj^self 

1  In  London  we  addressed  the  Prince  as  Royal  Highness  invariably;  though 
the  women  persisted  in  giving  him  the  title  of  King. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  51& 

of  frowning  barons.  I  admire  your  mistress,  and  you  send  her  to  a 
Bastile  of  the  Province;  I  enter  your  house,  and  you  mistrust  nie. 
I  will  leave  it,  monsieur;  from  to-night  I  will  leave  it  I  have 
other  friends  whose  loyalty  will  not  be  so  ready  to  question  mine. 
If  I  have  garters  to  give  away,  'tis  to  noblemen  who  are  not  so  ready 
to  think  evil  Bring  me  a  coach  and  let  me  quit  this  place,  or  let 
the  fair  Beatrix  return  to  it.  I  will  not  have  your  hospitality  at 
the  expense  of  the  freedom  of  that  fair  creature." 

This  harangue  was  uttered  with  rapid  gesticulation  such  as  the 
French  use,  and  in  the  language  of  that  nation.  The  Prince  strid- 
ing up  and  down  the  room;  his  face  flushed,  and  his  hands- 
trembling  with  anger.  He  was  very  thin  and  frail  from  repeated 
illness  and  a  life  of  pleasure.  Either  Castlewood  or  Esmond  could 
have  broke  him  across  their  knee,  and  in  half-a-minute's  struggle 
put  an  end  to  him;  and  here  he  was  insulting  us  both,  and  scarce 
deigning  to  hide  from  the  two,  whose  honour  it  most  concerned, 
the  passion  he  felt  for  the  young  lady  of  our  family.  My 
Lord  Castlewood  replied  to  the  Prince's  tirade  very  nobly  and 
simply. 

"Sir,"  says  he,  "your  Royal  Highness  is  pleased  to  forget  that 
others  risk  their  lives,  and  for  your  cause.  Very  few  Englishmen, 
please  God,  would  dare  to  lay  hands  on  your  sacred  person,  though 
none  would  ever  think  of  respecting  ours.  Our  family's  lives  are  at 
your  service,  and  everything  we  have,  except  our  honour." 

"Honour!  bah,  sir,  who  ever  thought  of  hurting  your  honour?" 
says  the  Prince  with  a  peevish  air. 

"We  implore  your  Royal  Highness  never  to  think  of  hurting  it," 
says  Lord  Castlewood  with  a  low  bow.  The  night  being  warm,  the 
windows  were  open  both  towards  the  Gardens  and  the  Square. 
Colonel  Esmond  heard  through  the  closed  door  the  voice  of  the 
watchman  calling  the  hour,  in  the  Square  on  the  other  side.  He 
opened  the  door  communicating  with  the  Prince's  room ;  Martin, 
the  servant  that  had  rode  with  Beatrix  to  Hounslow,  was  just  going 
out  of  the  chamber  as  Esmond  entered  it,  and  when  the  fellow  was 
gone;  and  the  watchman  again  sang  his  cry  of  "Past  ten  o'clock, 


520  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

and  a  starlight  night,"  Esmond  spoke  to  the  Prince  in  a  low  voice, 
and  said,  "Your  Royal  Highness  hears  that  man?" 

"Apres,  monsieur?"  says  the  Prince. 

'  I  have  but  to  beckon  him  from  the  window,  and  send  him  fifty 
yards,  and  he  returns  with  a  guard  of  men,  and  I  deliver  up  to  him 
the  body  of  the  person  calling  himself  James  the  Third,  for  whose 
capture  Parliament  hath  offered  a  reward  of  £500,  as  your  Royal 
Highness  saw  on  our  ride  from  Rochester.  I  have  but  to  say  the 
word,  and,  by  the  Heaven  that  made  me,  I  would  say  it  if  I  thought 
the  Prince,  for  his  honour's  sake,  would  not  desist  from  insulting 
ours.  But  the  first  gentleman  of  England  knows  his  duty  too  well 
to  forget  himself  w^ith  the  humblest,  or  peril  his  crown  for  a  deed 
that  were  shameful  if  it  were  done." 

"Has  your  Lordship  anything  to  say,"  says  the  Prince,  turning 
to  Frank  Castlewood,  and  quite  pale  with  anger;  "any  threat  or 
any  insult,  with  which  you  would  like  to  end  this  agreeable  night's 
entertainment?" 

'I  follow^  the  head  of  our  house,"  says  Castlewood,  bowing 
gravely.  "At  what  time  shall  it  please  the  Prince  that  we  should 
wait  upon  him  in  the  morning?" 

"You  will  wait  on  the  Bishop  of  Rochester  early,  you  will  bid 
him  bring  his  coach  hither;  and  prepare  an  apartment  for  me  in 
liis  own  house,  or  in  a  place  of  safety.  The  King  will  reward  you 
liandsomely,  never  fear,  for  all  you  have  done  in  his  behalf.  I  wish 
you  a  good  night,  and  shall  go  to  bed,  unless  it  pleases  the  Marquis 
of  Esmond  to  call  his  colleague,  the  watchman,  and  that  I  should 
pass  the  night  with  the  Kensington  guard.  Fare  you  well;  be  sure 
I  will  remember  you.  My  Lord  Castlewood,  I  can  go  to  bed  to-night 
without  need  of  a  chamberlain,"  And  the  Prince  dismissed  us 
with  a  grim  bow,  locking  one  door  as  he  spoke,  that  into  the 
supping-room,  and  the  other  through  which  we  passed,  after  us.  It 
led  into  the  small  chamber  which  Frank  Castlewood  or  Monsieur 
Bcq)tiste  occupied,  and  by  which  Martin  entered  when  Colonel 
Esmond  but  now  saw  him  in  the  chamber. 

At  an  early  hour  next  morning  the  Bishop  arrived,  and  was 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  521 

closeted  for  some  time  with  Iiis  master  in  his  own  apartment, 
where  the  Prince  laid  open  to  his  counsellor  the  wrongs  which, 
according  to  his  version,  he  had  received  from  the  gentlemen  of 
the  Esmond  family.  The  worthy  prelate  came  out  from  the  con- 
ference with  an  air  of  great  satisfaction;  he  was  a  man  full  of 
resources,  and  of  a  most  assured  fidelity,  and  possessed  of  genius, 
and  a  hundred  good  qualities;  but  captious  and  of  a  most  jealous 
temper,  that  could  not  help  exulting  at  the  downfall  of  any  favour- 
ite; and  he  was  pleased  in  spite  of  himself  to  hear  that  the  Esmond 
Ministry  was  at  an  end. 

"I  have  soothed  j'our  guest,"  says  he,  coming  out  to  the  two 
gentlemen  and  the  widow,  who  had  been  made  acquainted  with 
somewhat  of  the  dispute  of  the  night  before.  (By  the  version  we 
gave  her,  the  Prince  was  only  made  to  exhibit  anger  because  we 
doubted  of  his  intentions  in  respect  to  Beatrix ;  and  to  leave  us, 
because  we  questioned  his  honour.)  "But  I  think,  all  things  con- 
sidered, 'tis  as  well  he  should  leave  this  house ;  and  then,  my  Lady 
Castlewood,"  says  the  Bishop,  "my  pretty  Beatrix  may  come  back 
to  it." 

"She  is  quite  as  well  at  home  at  Castlewood,"  Esmond's  mistress 
said,  "till  everything  is  over." 

"You  shall  have  your  title,  Esmond,  that  I  promise  you,"  says 
the  good  Bishop,  assuming  the  airs  of  a  Prime  Minister.  "The 
Prince  hath  expressed  himself  most  nobly  in  regard  of  the  little 
difference  of  last  night,  and  I  promise  you  lie  hath  listened  to  my 
sermon,  as  well  as  to  that  of  other  folks,"  says  the  Doctor  archly  ; 
"he  hath  every  great  and  generous  quality,  with  perhaps  a  weak- 
ness for  the  sex  which  belongs  to  his  family,  and  hath  been  known 
in  scores  of  popular  sovereigns  from  King  David  downwards." 

"My  Lord,  my  Lord!"  breaks  out  Lady  Esmond,  "the  levity 
with  which  3'ou  speak  of  such  conduct  towards  our  sex  shocks  me, 
and  what  you  call  weakness  I  call  deplorable  sin." 

"Sin  it  is,  mj^  dear  creature,"  says  the  Bishop,  with  a  shrug, 
taking  snuff;  "but  consider  what  a  sinner  King  Solomon  was,  and 
in  spite  of  a  thousand  of  wives  too." 


523  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

''Enough  of  this,  my  Lord,"  says  Lady  Castlewood,  with  a  fine 
blush,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  very  stately. 

The  Prince  entered  it  presently  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  if 
he  felt  any  offence  against  us  on  the  previous  night,  at  present 
exhibited  none.  He  offered  a  hand  to  each  gentleman  with  great 
courtesy.  "If  all  your  bishops  preach  so  well  as  Doctor  Atter- 
bury,"  says  he,  "I  don't  knovv^  gentlemen,  what  may  happen  to 
me.  I  spoke  very  hastily,  my  lords,  last  night,  and  ask  pardon  of 
both  of  you.  But  I  must  not  stay  any  longer, "  says  he,  "giving 
umbrage  to  good  friends,  or  keeping  pretty  girls  away  from  their 
homes.  My  Lord  Bishop  hath  found  a  safe  place  for  me,  hard  by 
at  a  curate's  house,  whom  the  Bishop  can  trust,  and  whose  wife  is 
so  ugly  as  to  be  beyond  all  danger;  we  will  decamp  into  those  new 
quarters,  and  I  leave  you,  thanking  you  for  a  hundred  kindnesses 
here.  Where  is  my  hostess,  that  I  may  bid  her  farewell?  to  wel- 
come her  in  a  house  of  my  own,  soon,  I  trust,  where  my  friends 
shall  have  no  cause  to  quarrel  with  me. ' ' 

Lady  Castlewood  arrived  presently,  blushing  with  great  grace, 
and  tears  filling  her  eyes  as  the  Prince  graciously  saluted  her.  She 
looked  so  charming  and  young,  that  the  Doctor,  in  his  bantering 
way,  could  not  help  speaking  of  her  beauty  to  the  Prince ;  whose 
compliment  made  her  blush,  and  look  more  charming  still. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  GREAT  SCHEME,  AND  WHO  BALKED  IT 

As  characters  written  with  a  secret  ink  come  out  with  the  appli- 
cation of  fire,  and  disappear  again  and  leave  the  paper  white,  so 
soon  as  it  is  cool ;  a  hundred  names  of  men,  high  in  repute  and 
favouring  the  Prince's  cause,  that  were  writ  in  our  private  lists, 
would  have  been  visible  enough  on  the  great  roll  of  the  conspiracy, 
.had  it  ever  been  laid  open  under  the  sun.  What  crowds  would 
have  pressed  forward,  and  subscribed  their  names  and  protested 
their  loyalty,  when  the  danger  was  over!  What  a  number  of 
Whigs,  now  high  in  place  and  creatures  of  the  all  powerful  Minis- 
ter, scorned  Mr.  Walpole  then !  If  ever  a  match  was  gained  by  the 
manliness  and  decision  of  a  few  at  a  moment  of  danger;  if  ever 
one  was  lost  by  the  treachery  and  imbecility  of  those  that  had  the 
cards  in  their  hands,  and  might  have  played  them,  it  was  in  that 
momentous  game  which  was  enacted  in  the  next  three  days,  and  of 
which  the  noblest  crown  in  the  world  was  the  stake. 

From  the  conduct  of  my  Lord  Bolingbroke,  those  who  were 
interested  in  the  scheme  we  had  in  hand  saw  pretty  well  that  he 
was  not  to  be  trusted.  Should  the  Prince  prevail,  it  was  his  Lord- 
ship's gracious  intention  to  declare  for  him :  should  the  Hanoverian 
party  bring  in  their  Sovereign,  who  more  ready  to  go  on  his  knee, 
and  cry  "God  save  King  George"?  And  he  betrayed  the  one 
Prince  and  the  other ;  but  exactly  at  the  wrong  time.  When  he 
should  have  struck  for  King  James,  he  faltered  and  coquetted  with 
the  Whigs;  and  having  committed  himself  by  the  most  monstrous 
professions  of  devotion,  which  the  Elector  rightly  scorned,  he 
proved  the  justice  of  their  contempt  for  him  by  flying  and  taking 
renegade  service  with  St.  Germains,  just  when  he  should  have  kept 

523 


524  THE  HISTORi^  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

aloof:  and  that  Court  despised  him,  as  the  manly  and  resolute  men 
who  established  the  Elector  in  England  had  before  done.  He 
signed  his  own  name  to  every  accusation  of  insincerity  his  enemies 
made  against  him;  and  the  King  and  the  Pretender  alike  could 
show  proofs  of  St.  John's  treachery  under  his  own  hand  and 
seal. 

Our  friends  kept  a  pretty  close  watch  upon  his  motions,  as  on 
those  of  the  brave  and  hearty  Whig  party,  that  made  little  conceal- 
riicnt  of  theirs.  They  would  have  in  the  Elector,  and  used  every 
means  in  their  power  to  effect  tlieir  end.  My  Lord  Marlborough 
was  now  with  them.  His  expulsion  from  power  by  the  Tories  had 
thrown  that  great  captain  at  once  on  the  Whig  side.  We  heard  he 
was  coming  from  Antwerp;  and,  in  fact,  on  the  day  of  the  Queen's 
death,  he  once  more  landed  on  English  shore.  A  great  part  of  the 
army  was  always  with  their  illustriovis  leader;  even  the  Tories  in  it 
were  indignant  at  the  injustice  of  the  persecution  which  the  Whig 
officers  were  made  to  undergo.  The  chiefs  of  these  were  in  London, 
and  at  the  head  of  them  one  of  the  most  intrepid  men  in  the  world, 
the  Scots  Duke  of  Argyle,  whose  conduct  on  the  second  day  after 
that  to  which  I  have  now  brought  down  my  history,  ended,  as  such 
honesty  and  bravery  deserved  to  end,  by  establishing  the  present 
Royal  race  on  the  English  throne. 

Meanwhile  there  was  no  slight  difference  of  opinion  amongst 
the  councillors  surrounding  the  Prince,  as  to  the  plan  his  Highness 
should  pursue.  His  female  Minister  at  Court,  fancying  she  saw 
some  amelioration  in  the  Queen,  was  for  waiting  a  few  days,  or 
hours  it  miglit  be,  until  he  could  be  brought  to  her  bedside,  and 
acknowledged  as  her  heir.  Mr.  Esmond  was  for  having  him  march 
tliitlier,  escorted  by  a  couple  of  troops  of  Horse  Guards,  and  openly 
presenting  liimself  to  the  Council.  During  the  whole  of  the  night 
of  the  29th-30th  July,  the  Colonel  was  engaged  with  gentlemen  of 
the  military  profession,  whom  'tis  needless  here  to  name;  sviffice  it 
to  say  that  several  of  them  had  exceeding  high  rank  in  the  army, 
and  one  of  them  in  especial  was  a  General,  who,  when  he  heard 
the  Duke  of  ^Marlborough  was  coming  on  the  other  side,  waved  his 


THE  HISTORY  UJ^"  HENRY  ESMOND  525 

crutch  over  his  head  with  a  liuzzah,  at  the  idea  that  he  should 
march  out  and  engage  him.  Of  the  three  Secretaries  of  State,  we 
knew  that  one  was  devoted  to  us.  The  Governor  of  the  Tower  was 
ours ;  the  two  companies  on  duty  at  Kensington  barrack  were  safe ; 
and  we  had  inteUigence,  very  speedy  and  accurate,  of  all  that  took 
place  at  the  Palace  within. 

At  noon,  on  the  30th  of  July,  a  message  came  to  the  Prince's 
friends  that  the  Committee  of  Council  was  sitting  at  Kensington 
Palace,  their  Graces  of  Ormonde  and  Shrewsbury,  and  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  and  the  three  Secretaries  of  State,  being  there 
assembled.  In  an  hour  afterwards,  hurried  news  was  brought  that 
the  two  great  Whig  Dukes,  Argyle  and  Somerset,  had  broke  into  the 
Council  Chamber  without  a  summons,  and  taken  their  seat  at 
table.  After  holding  a  debate  there,  the  whole  party  proceeded  to 
the  chamber  of  the  Queen,  who  was  lying  in  great  weakness,  but 
still  sensible,  and  the  Lords  recommended  his  Grace  of  Shrewsbury 
as  the  fittest  person  to  take  the  vacant  place  of  Lord  Treasurer ;  her 
Majesty  gave  him  the  staff,  as  all  know.  "And  now  "  writ  my 
messenger  from  Court,  ''now  or  never  is  the  time.'''' 

Now  or  never  was  the  time  indeed.  In  spite  of  the  Whig  Dukes, 
our  side  had  still  the  majority  in  the  Council,  and  Esmond,  to 
whom  the  message  had  been  brought  (the  personage  at  Court  not 
being  aware  that  the  Prince  had  quitted  his  lodging  in  Kensington 
Square),  and  Esmond's  gallant  young  aide-de-camp,  Frank  Castle- 
wood,  putting  on  sword  and  uniform,  took  a  brief  leave  of  their 
dear  lady,  who  embraced  and  blessed  them  both,  and  went  to  her 
chamber  to  pray  for  the  issue  of  the  great  event  which  was  thea 
pending. 

Castlewood  sped  to  the  barrack  to  give  warning  to  the  captain 
of  the  Guard  there;  and  then  went  to  the  "King's  Arms"  tavern  at 
Kensington,  where  our  friends  were  assembled,  having  come  by 
parties  of  twos  and  threes,  riding  or  in  coaches,  and  were  got 
together  in  the  upper  chamber,  fifty-three  of  them ;  their  servants, 
who  had  been  instructed  to  bring  arms  likewise,  being  below  in  the 
garden  of  the  tavern,  where  they  were  served  with  drink.     Out  of 


526  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

this  garden  is  a  little  door  that  leads  into  the  road  of  the  Palace, 
and  through  this  it  was  arranged  that  masters  and  servants  were  to 
march ;  when  that  signal  was  given,  and  that  Personage  appeared, 
for  whom  all  were  waiting.  There  was  in  our  company  the  famous 
officer  next  in  command  to  the  Captain-General  of  the  forces,  his 
Grace  the  Duke  of  Ormonde,  who  was  within  at  the  Council. 
There  were  with  him  two  more  lieutenant-generals,  nine  major- 
generals  and  brigadiers,  seven  colonels,  eleven  Peers  of  Parliament, 
and  twenty-one  members  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  Guard 
was  with  us  within  and  without  the  Palace;  the  Queen  was 
with  us;  the  Council  (save  the  two  Whig  Dakes,  that  must 
have  succumbed) ;  the  day  was  our  own,  and  with  a  beating  heart 
Esmond  walked  rapidly  to  the  Mall  of  Kensington,  where  he  had 
parted  with  the  Prince  on  the  night  before.  For  three  nights  the 
Colonel  had  not  been  to  bed ;  the  last  had  been  passed  summoning 
the  Prince's  friends  together,  of  whom  the  great  majority  had  no 
sort  of  inkling  of  the  transaction  pending  until  they  were  told  that 
he  was  actually  on  the  spot,  and  were  summoned  to  strike  the 
blow.  The  night  before  and  after  the  altercation  with  the  Prince, 
my  gentleman,  having  suspicions  of  his  Royal  Highness,  and  fear- 
ing lest  he  should  be  minded  to  give  us  the  slip,  and  fly  off  after  his 
fugitive  beauty,  had  spent,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  at  the  "Grey- 
hound" tavern,  over  against  my  Lady  Castlewood's  house  in  Ken- 
sington Square,  with  an  eye  on  the  door,  lest  the  Prince  should 
escape  from  it.  The  night  before  that  he  had  passed  in  his  boots  at 
the  "Crown"  at  Hounslow,  where  he  must  watch  forsooth  all  night, 
in  order  to  get  one  moment's  glimpse  of  Beatrix  in  the  morning. 
And  fate  had  decreed  that  he  was  to  have  a  fourth  night's  ride  and 
wakefulness  before  his  business  was  ended. 

He  ran  to  the  curate's  house  in  Kensington  Mall,  and  asked  for 
Mr.  Bates,  the  name  the  Prince  went  by.  The  curate's  wife  said 
Mr.  Bates  had  gone  abroad  very  early  in  the  morning  in  his  boots, 
saying  he  was  going  to  the  Bishop  of  Rochester's  house  at  Chelsey. 
But  the  Bishop  had  been  at  Kensington  himself  two  hours  ago  to 
seek  for  Mr.  Bates,  and  had  returned  in  his  coach   to  his  own 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  527 

house,  when  he  heard  that  the  gentleman  was  gone  thither  to 
seek  him. 

This  absence  was  most  unpropitious,  for  an  hour's  delay  might 
cost  a  kingdom ;  Esmond  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  hasten  to  the 
"King's  Arms,"  and  tell  the  gentlemen  there  assembled  that  Mr. 
George  (as  we  called  the  Prince  there)  was  not  at  home,  but  that 
Esmond  would  go  fetch  him;  and  taking  a  General's  coach  that 
happened  to  be  there,  Esmond  drove  across  the  country  to  Chelsey, 
to  the  Bishop's  house  there. 

The  porter  said  two  gentlemen  were  with  his  Lordship,  and 
Esmond  ran  past  this  sentry  up  to  the  locked  door  of  the  Bishop's 
study,  at  which  he  rattled,  and  was  admitted  presently.  Of  the 
Bishop's  guests  one   was  a  brother  prelate,    and  the   other    the 

Abbe  G . 

'Where  is  Mr.  George?"  says  Mr.  Esmond;  "now  is  the  time." 
The  Bishop  looked  scared:  "I  went  to  his  lodging,"  he  said,  "and 
they  told  me  he  was  come  hither.  I  returned  as  quick  as  coach 
would  carry  me;  and  he  hath  not  been  here." 

The  Colonel  burst  out  with  an  oath ;  that  was  all  he  could  say  to 
their  reverences :  ran  down  the  stairs  again,  and  bidding  the  coach-  , 
man,   an  old  friend  and   fellow  campaigner,  drive  as  if  he  was 
charging  the  French  with  his  master  at  Wynendael — they  were 
back  at  Kensington  in  half-an-hour. 

Again  Esmond  went  to  the  curate's  house.  Mr.  Bates  had  not 
returned.  The  Colonel  had  to  go  with  this  blank  errand  to  the 
gentlemen  at  the  "King's  Arms,"  that  were  grown  very  impatient 
by  this  time. 

Out  of  the  window  of  the  tavern,  and  looking  over  the  garden 
wall,  you  can  see  the  green  before  Kensington  Palace,  the  Palace 
gate  (round  which  the  Ministers'  coaches  were  standing),  and  the 
barrack  building.  As  we  were  looking  out  from  this  window 
in  gloomy  discourse,  we  heard  presently  trumpets  blowing,  and 
some  of  us  ran  to  the  window  of  the  front-room,  looking  into  the 
High  Street  of  Kensington,  and  saw  a  regiment  of  horse  coming. 

"It's  Ormonde's  Guards,"  savs  one. 


528  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

*'No,  by  God,  it's  Argyle's  old  regiment!''  says  my  General, 
clapping  down  his  crutch. 

It  was,  indeed,  Argyle's  regiment  that  was  brought  from  West 
minster,  and  that  took  the  place  of  the  regiment  at  Kensington  on 
which  we  could  rely. 

"O  Harry!"  says  one  of  the  Generals  there  present,  "you  were 
born  under  an  unlucky  star;  I  begin  to  think  that  there's  no  Mr. 
George,  nor  Mr.  Dragon  either.  'Tis  not  the  peerage  I  care  for,  for 
our  name  is  so  ancient  and  famous,  that  merely  to  be  called  Lord 
Lydiard  would  do  me  no  good ;  but  'tis  the  chance  you  promised  me 
of  fighting  Marlborough." 

As  we  were  talking,  Castlewood  entered  the  room  with  a  dis- 
turbed air. 

"What  news,  Frank?"  says  the  Colonel.  "Is  Mr.  George  coming 
at  last?" 

"Damn  him,  look  here!"  says  Castlewood,  holding  out  a  paper. 
"I  found  it  in  the  book — the  what  you  call  it,  'Eikum  Basilikum,' 
that  villain  Martin  put  it  there— he  said  his  young  mistress  bade 
hira.  It  was  directed  to  me,  but  it  was  meant  for  him  I  know,  and 
I  broke  the  seal  and  read  it." 

The  whole  assembly  of  officers  seemed  to  swim  away  before 
Esmond's  eyes  as  he  read  the  paper;  all  that  was  written  on 
it  was: — "Beatrix  Esmond  is  sent  away  to  prison,  to  Castlewood, 
where  she  will  pray  for  Imppier  days." 

"Can  you  guess  where  he  is?*'  says  Castlewood. 

"Yes,"  says  Colonel  Esmond.  He  knew  full  well;  Frank  knew 
full  well:  our  instinct  told  whither  that  traitor  had  fled. 

He  had  courage  to  turn  to  the  company  and  say:  "Gentlemen,  I 
fear  very  much  that  Mr.  George  will  not  be  here  to-daj' ;  something 
hath  happened — and — and — I  very  much  fear  some  accident  may 
befall  him,  which  must  keep  him  out  of  the  way.  Having  had 
your  noon's  draught,  you  had  best  paj-  the  reckoning  and  go  home; 
there  can  be  no  game  where  there  is  no  one  to  play  it." 

Some  of  the  gentlemen  went  away  without  a  word,  others 
called  to  pay  their  duty  to  her  Majesty  and  ask  for  her  health.     The 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  539 

little  army  disappeared  into  the  darkness  out  of  which  it  had  been 
called;  there  had  been  no  writings,  no  paper  to  implicate  any  man. 
Some  few  officers  and  members  of  Parliament  had  been  invited 
over  night  to  breakfast  at  the  "King's  Arms,"  at  Kensington;  and 
they  had  called  for  their  bill  and  gone  home. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AUGUST   1st,    1714 

"Does  my  mistress  know  of  this?"  Esmond  asked  of  Frank,  as 
they  walked  along. 

'  "My  mother  found  the  letter  in  the  book,  on  the  toilet  table. 
She  had  writ  it  ere  she  had  left  home,"  Frank  said.  "Mother  met 
her  on  the  stairs,  with  her  hand  upon  the  door,  trying  to  enter,  and 
never  left  her  after  that  till  she  went  away.  He  did  not  think  of 
looking  at  it  there,  nor  had  Martin  the  chance  of  telling  him.  I 
believe  the  poor  devil  meant  no  harm,  though  I  half  killed  him ;  he 
thought  'twas  to  Beatrix's  brother  he  was  bringing  the  letter." 

Frank  never  said  a  word  of  reproach  to  me  for  having  brought 
the  villain  amongst  us.  As  we  knocked  at  the  door  I  said,  "When 
will  the  horses  be  ready?"  Frank  pointed  with  his  cane,  they  were 
turning  the  street  that  moment. 

We  went  up  and  bade  adieu  to  our  mistress;  she  was  in  a  dread- 
ful state  of  agitation  by  this  time,  and  that  Bishop  was  with  her 
whose  company  she  was  so  fond  of. 

"Did  you  tell  him,  my  Lord,"  says  Esmond,  "that  Beatrix  was 
at  Castle  wood?"  The  Bishop  blushed  and  stammered:  "Well," 
says  he,  "I " 

"You  served  the  villain  right,"  broke  out  Mr.  Esmond,  "and  he 
has  lost  a  crown  by  what  you  told  him." 

My  mistress  turned  quite  white.  "Henry,  Henry,"  says  she,  "do 
not  kill  him!" 

"It  may  not  be  too  late,"  says  Esmond;  "he  may  not  have  gone 
to  Castlewood;  pray  God,  it  is  not  too  late."  The  Bishop  was 
breaking  out  with  some  banale  phrases  about  loyalty,  and  the 
sacredness  of  the  Sovereign's  person ;  but  Esmond  sternly  bade  him 
hold  his  tongue,  burn  all  papers,  and  take  care  of  Lady  Castlewood: 

530 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  531 

and  in  five  minutes  he  and  Frank  were  in  the  saddle,  John  Lock- 
Nvood  behind  them,  riding  towards  Castlewood  at  a  rapid  pace. 

We  were  just  got  to  Alton,  when  who  should  meet  us  but  old 
Lock  wood,  the  porter  from  Castlewood,  John's  father,  walking  by 
the  side  of  the  Hexton  flying-coach,  who  slept  the  night  at  Alton. 
Lockwood  said  his  young  mistress  had  arrived  at  home  on  Wednes- 
day night,  and  this  morning,  Friday,  had  despatched  him  with  a 
packet  for  my  Lady  at  Kensington,  saying  the  letter  was  of  great 
importance. 

We  took  the  freedom  to  break  it,  while  Lockwood  stared  with 
wonder,  and  cried  out  his  "Lord  bless  me's,"  and  "Who'd  a  thought 
it's,"  at  the  sight  of  his  young  lord,  whom  he  had  not  seen  these 
Seven  years. 

The  packet  from  Beatrix  contained  no  news  of  importance  at 
all.  It  was  w^ritten  in  a  jocular  strain,  affecting  to  make  light  of 
her  captivity.  She  asked  whether  she  might  have  leave  to  visit 
Mrs.  Tusher,  or  to  walk  beyond  the  court  and  the  garden  wall. 
She  gave  news  of  the  peacocks,  and  a  fawn  she  had  there.  She 
bade  her  mother  send  her  certain  gowns  and  smocks  by  old  Lock- 
wood  ;  she  sent  her  duty  to  a  certain  Person,  if  certain  other  per- 
sons permitted  her  to  take  such  a  freedom ;  how  that,  as  she  was 
not  able  to  play  cards  with  him,  she  hoped  he  would  read  good 
books,  such  as  Doctor  Atterbury's  sermons  and  "Eikou  Basilike:"' 
she  was  going  to  read  good  books ;  she  thought  her  pretty  mamma 
would  like  to  know  she  w^as  not  crying  her  eyes  out. 

"Who  is  in  the  house  besides  you,  Lockwood?"  says  the  Colonel. 

"There  be  the  laundry-maid,  and  the  kitchen-maid,  Madam 
Beatrix's  maid,  the  man  from  London,  and  that  be  all;  and  he 
sleepeth  in  my  lodge  away  from  the  maids,''  says  old  Lockwood. 

Esmond  scribbled  a  line  with  a  pencil  on  the  note,  giving  it  to 
the  old  man,  and  bidding  him  go  on  to  his  lady.  We  knew  why 
Beatrix  had  been  so  dutiful  on  a  sudden,  and  why  she  spoke  of 
"Eikon  Basilike."  She  writ  this  letter  to  put  the  Prince  on  the 
scent,  and  the  porter  out  of  the  way, 

"We  have  a  line  moonlight  night  for  riding  on,"  says  Esmond; 


533  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

''Frank,  we  may  reach  Castlewood  in  time  j'et.*'  All  the  way  along 
they  made  inquiries  at  the  post-houses,  when  a  tall  young  gentle- 
man in  a  grey  suit,  with  a  light  brown  periwig,  just  the  colour  of 
my  Lord's,  had  been  seen  to  pass.  He  had  set  off  at  six  that  morn- 
ing, and  we  a,t  three  in  tJie  afternoon.  He  rode  almost  as  quickly 
as  we  had  done ;  he  was  seven  hours  ahead  of  us  still  when  we 
reached  the  last  stage. 

We  rode  over  Castlewood  Downs  before  the  breaking  of  dawa 
We  passed  the  very  spot  where  the  car  was  upset  fourteen  years 
since,  and  Mohun  lay.  The  village  was  not  up  yet,  nor  the  forge 
lighted,  as  we  rode  through  it,  passing  by  the  elms,  where  the 
rooks  were  still  roosting,  and  by  the  church,  and  over  the 
bridge.  We  got  off  our  horses  at  the  bridge  and  walked  up  to  the 
gate. 

"If  she  is  safe,"  says  Frank,  trembling,  and  his  honest  eyes  fill- 
ing  with  tears,  "a  silver  statue  to  Our  Lady!"  He  was  going  to 
rattle  at  the  great  iron  knocker  on  the  oak  gate;  but  Esmond 
stopped  his  kinsman's  hand.  He  had  his  own  fears,  his  own  hopes, 
his  own  despairs  and  griefs,  too;  but  he  spoke  not  a  word  of  these 
to  his  companion,  or  showed  any  signs  of  emotion. 

He  went  and  tapped  at  the  little  window  at  the  porter's  lodge, 
gently,  but  repeatedly,  until  the  man  came  to  the  bars. 

'Who's  there?''  says  he,  looking  out.  It  was  the  servant  from 
Kensington. 

"My  Lord  Castlewood  and  Colonel]  Esmond, "  we  said,  from 
below.     "Open  the  gate  and  let  us  in  without  any  noise." 

"My  Lord  Castlewood?"  says  the  other;  "my  Lord's  here,  and  in 
bed." 

"Open,  d you,"  says  Castlewood,  with  a  curse. 

"I  shall  open  to  no  one,"  says  the  man,  shutting  the  glass  win- 
dow as  Frank  drew  a  pistol.  He  would  have  fired  at  the  porter, 
but  Esmond  again  held  his  hand. 

"There  are  more  ways  than  one,"  says  he,  "of  entering  such  a 
great  house  as  this."  Frank  grumbled  that  the  west  gate  was  half- 
a-miie  round.     "But  I  know  of  a  way  that's  not  a  hundred  yards 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  533 

off,"  says  Mr.  Esmond;  and  leading  his  kinsman  close  along  the 
wall,  and  b}'  the  shrubs  which  had  now  grown  thick  on  what  had 
been  an  old  moat  about  the  liouse,  they  came  to  the  buttress,  at 
the  side  of  which  the  little  window  was,  which  was  Father  Holt's 
private  door,  Esmond  climbed  up  to  this  easily,  broke  a  pane  that 
had  been  mended,  and  touched  the  spring  inside,  and  the  two  gen- 
tlemen passed  in  that  way,  treading  as  lightly  as  they  could;  and 
so  going  through  the  passage  into  the  court,  over  which  the  dawn 
was  now  reddening,  and  where  the  fountain  plashed  in  the 
silence. 

They  sped  instantl}^  to  the  porter's  lodge,  where  tlie  fellow  had 
not  fastened  his  door  that  led  into  the  court ;  and  pistol  in  hand 
came  upon  the  terrified  wretch,  and  bade  him  be  silent.  Then  they 
asked  him  (Esmond's  head  reeled,  and  he  almost  fell  as  he  spoke) 
when  Lord  Castlewood  had  arrived?  He  said  on  the  previous  even- 
ing, about  eight  of  the  clock. — "And  what  then?'' — His  Lordship 
supped  with  his  sister. — "Did  the  man  wait?" — Yes,  he  and  my 
Lady's  maid  both  waited:  the  other  servants  made  the  supper;  and 
there  was  no  wine,  and  they  could  give  his  Lordship  but  milk,  at 
which  he  grumbled;  and — and  Madam  Beatrix  kept  Miss  Lucy 
always  in  the  room  with  her.  And  there  being  a  bed  across  the 
court  in  the  Chaplain's  room,  she  had  arranged  my  Lord  was  to 
sleep  there.  Madam  Beatrix  had  come  downstairs  laughing  with 
the  maids,  and  had  locked  herself  in,  and  my  Lord  had  stood  for  a 
while  talking  to  her  through  the  door,  and  she  laughing  at  him. 
And  then  he  paced  the  court  awhile,  and  she  came  again  to  the 
upper  window;  and  my  Lord  implored  her  to  come  down  and  walk 
in  the  room;  but  she  would  not,  and  lauglied  at  him  again,  and 
shut  the  window ;  and  so  my  Lord,  uttering  what  seemed  curses, 
but  in  a  foreign  language,  went  to  the  Chaplain's  room  to  bed. 

"Was  this  all?'' — "All,"  the  man  swore  upon  his  honour;  all,  as 
he  hoped  to  be  saved. — "Stop,  there  was  one  thing  more.  My  Lord, 
on  arriving,  and  once  or  twice  during  supper,  did  kiss  his  sister,  as 
was  natural,  and  she  kissed  him."  At  this  Esmond  ground  his 
teeth  with  rage,  and  well-nigh  throttled  the  amazed  miscreant  who 


534  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

was  speaking,  whereas  Castlewood,  seizing  hold  of  his  cousin's 
hand,  burst  into  a  great  fit  of  laughter 

"If  it  amuses  thee,"  says  Esmond  in  French,  "that  your  sister 
should  be  exchanging  of  kisses  with  a  stranger,  I  fear  poor  Beatrix 
will  give  thee  plenty  of  sport." — Esmond  darkly  thought,  how  Ham- 
ilton, Ashburnham,  had  before  been  masters  of  those  roses  that  the 
young  Prince's  lips  were  now  feeding  on.  He  sickened  at  that 
notion.  Her  cheek  was  desecrated,  her  beauty  tarnished;  shamo 
and  honour  stood  between  it  and  him.  The  love  was  dead  within 
him ;  had  she  a  crown  to  bring  him  with  her  love,  he  felt  that  both 
would  degrade  him. 

But  this  wrath  against  Beatrix  did  not  lessen  the  angry  feelings 
of  the  Colonel  against  the  man  who  had  been  the  occasion  if  not 
the  cause  of  the  evil.  Frank  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  in  the 
courtyard,  and  fairly  fell  asleep,  while  Esmond  paced  up  and  down 
the  court,  debating  what  should  ensue.  What  mattered  how 
much  or  how  little  had  passed  between  the  Prince  and  the  poor 
faithless  girl?  They  were  arrived  in  time  perhaps  to  rescue  her 
person,  but  not  her  mind:  had  she  not  instigated  the  young  Prince 
to  come  to  her,  suborned  servants,  dismissed  others,  so  that  she 
might  communicate  with  him?  The  treacherous  heart  within  her 
had  surrendered,  though  the  place  was  safe;  and  it  was  to  win  this 
that  he  had  given  a  life's  struggle  and  devotion ;  this,  that  she  was 
ready  to  give  away  for  the  bribe  of  a  coronet  or  a  wink  of  the 
Prince's  eye. 

When  he  had  thought  his  thoughts  out  he  shook  up  poor  Frank 
from  his  sleep,  who  rose  yawning,  and  said  he  had  been  dreaming  of 
Clotilda.  "You  must  back  me,"  says  Esmond,  "in  what  I  am 
going  to  do.  I  have  been  thinking  that  yonder  scoundrel  may  have 
been  instructed  to  tell  that  story,  and  that  the  whole  of  it  may  be 
a  lie ;  if  it  be,  we  shall  find  it  out  from  the  gentleman  who  is  asleep 
yonder.  See  if  the  door  leading  to  my  Lady's  rooms"  (so  we  called 
the  rooms  at  the  north-west  angle  of  the  house),  "see  if  the  door  is 
barred  as  he  saith."  We  tried;  it  was  indeed  as  the  lacquey  had 
said,  closed  within. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  535 

"It  may  have  been  opened  and  shut  afterwards,"  says  poor 
Esmond;  "the  foundress  of  our  family  let  our  ancestor  in  in  that 
way." 

"What  will  you  do,  Harry,  if — if  what  that  fellow  saith  should 
turn  out  untrue?"  The  young  man  looked  scared  and  frightened 
into  his  kinsman's  face;  I  dare  say  it  wore  no  very  pleasant 
expression. 

"Let  us  first  go  see  whether  the  two  stories  agree,"  says 
Esmond ;  and  went  in  at  the  passage  and  opened  the  door  into  what 
had  been  his  own  chamber  now  for  well-nigh  five-and-twenty 
years.  A  candle  was  still  burning,  and  the  Prince  asleep  dressed 
on  the  bed — Esmond  did  not  care  for  making  a  noise.  The  Prince 
started  up  in  his  bed,  seeing  two  men  in  his  chamber:  "Qui  est  la?" 
says  he,  and  took  a  pistol  from  under  his  pillow. 

"It  is  the  Marquis  of  Esmond,"  says  the  Colonel,  "come  to  wel- 
come his  Majesty  to  his  house  of  Castlewood,  and  to  report  of  what 
hath  happened  in  London.  Pursuant  to  the  King's  orders,  I  passed 
the  night  before  last,  after  leaving  his  Majesty,  in  waiting  upon 
the  friends  of  the  King.  It  is  a  pity  that  his  Majesty's  desire  to 
see  the  country  and  to  visit  our  poor  house  should  have  caused  the 
King  to  quit  London  without  notice  'yesterday,  when  the  opportu- 
nity happened  which  in  all  human  probability  may  not  occur  again ; 
and  had  the  King  not  chosen  to  ride  to  Castlewood,  the  Prince  of 
Wales  might  have  slept  at  St.  James's."  ■ 

"'Sdeath!  gentlemen,"  says  the  Prince,  starting  off  his  bed, 
whereon  he  was  lying  in  his  clothes,  "the  Doctor  w^as  with  me 
yesterday  morning,  and  after  watching  by  my  sister  all  night,  told 
me  I  might  not  hope  to  see  the  Queen." 

"It  would  have  been  otherwise,"  says  Esmond  with  another 
bow;  "as,  by  this  time,  the  Queen  may^be  dead  in  spite  of  the  Doc- 
tor. The  Council  was  met,  a  new  Treasurer  was  appointed,  the 
troops  were  devoted  to  the  King's  cause;  and  fifty  loyal  gentlemen 
of  the  greatest  names  of  this  kingdom  were  assembled  to  accom- 
pany the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  might  have  been  the  acknowledged 
heir  of  the  throne,  or  the  possessor  of  it  by  this  time,  had  your 


536  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

Majesty  not  chosen  to  take  the  air.     We  were  ready:  there  was 
only  one  person  that  failed  us,  your  Majesty's  gracious " 

"Morbleu,  monsieur,  you  give  me  too  much  Majesty,*'  said  the 
Prince,  who  had  now  risen  up  and  seemed  to  be  looking  to  one  of 
us  to  help  him  to  his  coat.     But  neither  stirred. 

"We  shall  take  care,"  says  Esmond,  "not  much  oftener  to  offend 
in  that  particular." 

"What  mean  you,  my  Lord?"  says  the  Prince,  and  muttered 
something  about  a  guet-d-pens,  which  Esmond  caught  up. 

"The  snare,  sir,"  said  he,  "was  not  of  our  laying;  it  is  not  we 
that  invited  you.  We  came  to  avenge,  and  not  to  compass,  the 
dishonour  of  our  family. ' ' 

"Dishonour!  Morbleu,  there  has  been  no  dishonour,"  says  the 
Prince,  turning  scarlet,  "only  a  little  harmless  playing." 

"That  was  meant  to  end  seriously." 

"I  swear,"  the  Prince  broke  out  impetuously,  "upon  the  honour 
of  a  gentleman,  my  lords " 

"That  we  arrived  in  time.  No  wrong  hath  been  done,  Frank," 
says  Colonel  Esmond,  turning  round  to  young  Castlewood,  who 
stood  at  the  door  as  the  talk  was  going  on.  "See!  here  is  a  paper 
whereon  his  Majesty  hath  deigned  to  commence  some  verses  in 
honour,  or  dishonour,  of  Beatrix.  Here  is  'Madame'  and  'Flamme, ' 
'Cruelle'  and  'Rebelle,'  and  'Amour"  and  'Jour,'  in  the  Royal  writ- 
ing and  spelling.  Had  the  Gracious  lover  been  happy,  he  had  not 
passed  his  time  in  sighing. "  In  fact,  and  actually  as  he  was  speak- 
ing, Esmond  cast  his  eyes  down  towards  the  table,  and  saw  a  paper 
on  which  my  young  Prince  had  been  scrawling  a  madrigal,  that 
was  to  finish  his  charmer  on  the  morrow. 

'Sir,"  says  the  Prince,  burnijig  with  rage  (he  had  assumed  his 
Royal  coat  unassisted  by  this  time),  "did  I  come  here  to  receive 
insults?" 

*'To  confer  them,  may  it  please  your  Majesty,"  says  the  Colonel, 
v\nth  a  very  low  bow,  "and  the  gentlemen  of  our  family  are  come 
to  thank  you." 

"Malediction."'  says  the  young  man,  tears  starting  into  his  eyes 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  537 

with  helpless  rage  and  mortification.  "What  will  you  with  me, 
gentlemen?" 

"If  your  Majesty  will  please  to  enter  the  next  apartment,"  says 
Esmond,  preserving  his  grave  tone,  "I  have  some  papers  there 
wnich  I  would  gladly  submit  to  you,  and  by  your  permission  I  will 
lead  tiie  way;"  and,  taking  the  taper  up,  and  backing  before  the 
Prince  with  very  great  ceremony,  Mr.  Esmond  passed  into  the  little 
Chaplain's  room,  through  which  we  had  just  entered  into  the 
house.  "Please  to  set  a  chair  for  his  Majesty,  Frank,"  says  the 
Colonel  to  his  companion,  who  wondered  almost  as  much  at  this 
scene,  and  was  as  much  puzzled  by  it,  as  the  other  actor  in  it. 
Then  going  to  the  crypt  over  the  mantlepiece,  the  Colonel  opened 
it,  and  drew  thence  the  papers  which  so  long  had  lain  there. 

"Here,  may  it  please  your  Majesty,"  says  he,  "is  the  Patent  of 
Marquis  sent  over  by  your  Royal  Father  at  St.  Germains  to  Viscount 
Castle  wood,  my  father:  here  is  the  witnessed  certificate  of  my 
father's  marriage  to  my  mother,  and  of  my  birth  and  christening; 
I  was  christened  of  that  religion  of  which  your  sainted  sire  gave 
all  through  life  so  shining  an  example.  These  are  my  titles,  dear 
Frank,  and  this  what  I  do  wnth  them:  here  go  Baj^tism  and  Mar- 
riage, and  here  the  Marquisate  and  the  August  Sign-Manual,  witk 
which  your  predecessor  was  pleased  to  honour  our  race."  And  as- 
Esmond  spoke  he  set  the  papers  burning  in  the  brazier.  "You  will 
please,  sir,  to  remember,"  he  continued,  "that  our  family  hath 
ruined  itself  by  fidelity  to  yours:  that  my  grandfather  spent  his 
estate,  and  gave  his  blood  and  his  son  to  die  for  your  service ;  that 
my  dear  lord's  grandfather  (for  lord  you  are  now,  Frank,  by  right 
and  title  too)  died  for  the  same  cause;  that  my  poor  >inswoman, 
my  father's  second  wife,  after  giving  away  her  honour  to  your 
wicked  perjured  race,  sent  all  her  wealth  to  the  King;  and  got  in 
return  that  precious  title  that  lies  in  ashes,  and  this  inestimable 
yard  of  blue  riband.  I  lay  this  at  your  feet  and  stamp  upoji  it :  I 
draw  this  sword,  and  break  it  and  deny  you ;  and,  had  you  com- 
pleted the  wrong  you  designed  us,  by  Heaven  I  would  have  driven 
it   tlirough  your  heart,   and  no  more  pardoned  you    than  your 


8  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

father  pardoned  Monmouth.     Frank  will  do  the  same,  won't  you 
cousin?" 

Frank,  who  had  been  looking  on  with  a  stupid  air  at  the  papers 
as  they  flamed  in  the  old  brazier,  took  out  his  sword  and  broke  it, 
holding  his  head  down: — "I  go  with  my  cousin,"  says  he,  giving 

Esmond  a  grasp  of  the  hand.     "Marquis  or  not,  by ,  I  stand  by 

him  any  day.  I  beg  your  Majesty's  pardon  for  swearing;  that  is — 
that  is — I'm  for  the  Elector  of  Hanover.  It's  all  your  Majesty's 
own  fault.  The  Queen's  dead  most  likely  by  this  time.  And 
you  might  have  been  King  if  you  hadn't  come  dangling  after 
Trix." 

'Thus  to  lose  a  crown,"  says  the  young  Prince,  starting  up,  and 
speaking  French  in  his  eager  way;  "to  lose  the  loveliest  woman  in 
the  world ;  to  lose  the  loyalty  of  such  hearts  as  yours,  is  not  this, 
my  lords,  enough  of  humiliation? — Marquis,  if  I  go  on  my  knees 
will  you  pardon  me? — No,  I  can't  do  that,  but  I  can  offer  you  repa- 
ration, that  of  honour,  that  of  gentlemen.  Favour  me  by  crossing 
the  sword  with  mine :  yours  is  broke — see,  yonder  in  the  armoire 
are  two;"  and  the  Prince  took  them  out  as  eager  as  a  boy,  and  held 
them  towards  Esmond: — "Ah!  you  will?    Merci,  monsieur,  merci!" 

Extremely  touched  by  this  immense  mark  of  condescension  and 
repentance  for  wrong  done.  Colonel  Esmond  bowed  down  so  low  as 
almost  to  kiss  the  gracious  young  hand  that  conferred  on  him  such 
an  honour,  and  took  his  guard  in  silence.  The  swords  were  no 
sooner  met,  than  Castlewood  knocked  up  Esmond's  with  the  blade 
of  his  own,  which  he  had  broke  off  short  at  the  shell;  and  the 
Colonel  falling  back  a  step  dropped  his  point  with  another  very  low 
bow,  and  declared  himself  perfectly  satisfied. 

"Eh  bien,  Vicomte!"  says  the  young  Prince,  who  was  a  boy,  and 
a  French  boy,  "il  ne  nous  reste  qu'une  chose  a  faire:"  he  placed 
his  sword  upon  the  table,  and  the  fingers  of  his  two  hands  upon  his 
breast: — "We  have  one  more  thing  tp  do,"  says  he;  "you  do  not 
divine  it?''     He  stretched  out  his  arms: — ''Embrassons  nousf^ 

Tlie  talk  was  scarce  over  when  Beatrix  entered  the  room: — 
What  came  she  to  seek  there?    She  started  and  turned  pale  at  tho 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND  539 

Bight  of  her  brother  and  kinsman,  drawn  swords,  broken  sword- 
blades,  and  papers  yet  smouldering  in  the  brazier. 

"Charming  Beatrix,"  says  the  Prince,  with  a  blush  which 
became  him  very  well,  "these  lords  have  come  a- horseback  from 
London,  where  my  sister  lies  in  a  despaired  state,  and  where  her 
successor  makes  himself  desired.  Pardon  me  for  my  escapade  of 
last  evening.  I  had  been  so  long  a  prisoner,  that  I  seized  the  occa- 
sion of  a  promenade  on  horseback,  and  my  horse  naturally  bore  me 
towards  you.  I  found  you  a  queen  in  your  little  court,  where  you 
deigned  to  entertain  me.  Present  my  homages  to  your  maids  of 
honour.  I  sighed  as  you  slept,  under  the  window  of  your  chamber, 
and  then  retired  to  seek  rest  in  my  own.  It  was  there  that 
these  gentlemen  agreeably  roused  me.  Yes,  milords,  for  that  is  a 
happy  day  that  makes  a  Prince  acquainted,  at  whatever  cost  to  his 
vanity,  with  such  a  noble  heart  as  that  of  the  Marquis  of  Esmond. 
Mademoiselle,  may  we  take  your  coach  to  town?  I  saw  it  in  the 
hangar,  and  this  poor  Marquis  must  be  dropping  with  sleep." 

"Will  it  please  the  King  to  breakfast  before  he  goes?"  was  all 
Beatrix  could  say.  The  roses  had  shuddered  out  of  her  cheeks;  her 
eyes  were  glaring;  she  looked  quite  old.  She  came  up  to  Esmond 
and  hissed  out  a  word  or  two: — "If  I  did  not  love  you  before, 
cousin,"  says  she,  "think  how  I  love  you  now."  If  words  could 
stab,  no  doubt  she  would  have  killed  Esmond;  she  looked  at  him  as 
if  she  could. 

But  her  keen  words  gave  no  wound  to  Mr.  Esmond ;  his  heart 
was  too  hard.  As  he  looked  at  her,  he  wondered  that  he  could  ever 
have  loved  her.  His  love  of  ten  years  was  over;  it  fell  down  dead 
on  the  spot,  at  the  Kensington  tavern,  where  Frank  brought  him 
the  note  out  of  "Eikon  Basilike. "  The  Prince  blushed  and  bowed 
low,  as  she  gazed  at  him,  and  quitted  the  chamber.  I  have  never 
seen  her  from  that  day. 

Horses  were  fetched  and  put  to  the  chariot  presently.  My  Lord 
rode  outside,  and  as  for  Esmond  he  was  so  tired  that  he  was  no 
sooner  in  the  carriage  than  he  fell  asleep,  and  never  woke  till  night 
as  the  coach  came  into  Alton. 


540  THE  HISTORY  C  F  HENRY  ESMOND 

As  we  cii'ove  to  the  "Bell  Inn"  comes  a  mitred  coach  with  our 
old  friend  Lockwood  beside  the  coachman.  My  Lady  Castlewood 
and  the  Bishop  were  inside;  she  gave  a  little  scream  when  she  saw 
us.  The  two  coaches  entered  the  inn  almost  together;  the  landlord 
and  people  coming  out  with  lights  to  welcome  the  visitors. 

We  in  our  coach  sprang  out  of  it,  as  soon  as  ever  we  saw  the 
dear  lady,  and  above  all,  the  Doctor  in  his  cassock.  What  was  the 
news?  Was  there  yet  time?  Was  the  Queen  alive?  These  ques- 
tions were  put  hurriedly,  as  Boniface  stood  waiting  before  his 
nobles  guests  to  bow  them  up  the  stair. 

"Is  she  safe?*'  was  what  Lady  Castlewood  whispered  in  a  flutter 
to  Esmond. 

"All's  well,  thank  God,"  says  he,  as  the  fond  lady  took  his  hand 
and  kissed  it,  and  called  him  her  preserver  and  her  dear.  She 
wasn't  thinking  of  Queens  and  crowns. 

The  Bishop's  news  was  reassuring ;  at  least  all  was  not  lost ;  the 
Queen  yet  breathed,  or  was  alive  when  they  left  London,  six  hours 
since.  ("It  was  Lady  Castlewood  who  insisted  on  coming,"  the 
Doctor  said.)  Argyle  had  marched  up  regiments  from  Portsmouth, 
and  sent  abroad  for  more ;  the  Whigs  were  on  the  alert,  a  pest  on 
them  (I  am  not  sure  but  the  Bislioi)  swore  as  he  spoke),  and  so  too 
were  our  people.  And  all  might  be  saved,  if  only  the  Prince  could  be 
at  London  in  time.  We  called  for  horses,  instantly  to  return  to  Lon- 
don. We  never  went  up  poor  crestfallen  Boniface's  stairs,  but  into 
our  coaches  again.  The  Prince  and  his  Prime  Minister  in  one, 
Esmond  in  the  other,  with  only  his  dear  mistress  as  a  companion. 

Castlewood  galloped  forwards  on  horseback  to  gather  the  Prince's 
friends  and  warn  them  of  his  coming.  We  travelled  through  the 
night— Esmond  discoursing  to  his  mistress  of  the  events  of  the  last 
twenty-four  hours:  of  Castlewood's  ride  and  his;  of  the  Prince's 
generous  behaviour  and  their  reconciliation.  The  night  seemed 
short  enough;  and  the  starlit  hours  passed  away  serenely  in  that 
fond  company. 

So  we  came  along  the  road;  the  Bishop's  coach  heading  ours; 
and,  with  some  delays  in  procuring  horses,  we  got  to  Hammersmith 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND  541 

about  four  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning,  the  first  of  August,  and 
half-an-hour  after,  it  being  then  bright  day,  we  rode  by  my  Lady 
Warwick's  house,  and  so  down  the  street  of  Kensington. 

Early  as  the  hour  was,  there  was  a  bustle  in  the  street,  and 
many  people  moving  to  and  fro.  Round  the  gate  leading  to  the 
Palace,  where  the  guard  is,  there  was  especially  a  great  crowd. 
And  the  coach  ahead  of  us  stopped,  and  the  Bishop's  man  got  down 
to  know  what  the  concourse  meant. 

There  presently  came  from  out  of  the  gate — Horse  Guards  with 
their  trumpets,  and  a  company  of  heralds  with  their  tabards.  The 
trumpets  blew,  and  the  herald-at-arms  came  forward  and  pro- 
claimed George,  by  the  Grace  of  God,  of  Great  Britain,  France, 
and  Ireland,  King,  Defender  of  the  Faith.  And  the  people  shouted, 
God  save  the  King! 

Among  the  crowd  shouting  and  waving  their  hats,  I  caught 
sight  of  one  sad  face,  which  I  had  known  all  my  life,  and  seen 
under  many  disguises.  It  was  no  other  than  poor  Mr.  Holt's,  who 
had  slipped  over  to  England  to  witness  the  triumph  of  the  good 
cause;  and  now  beheld  its  enemies  victorious,  amidst  the  acclama- 
tions of  the  English  people.  The  poor  fellow  had  forgot  to  huzzah 
or  to  take  his  hat  off,  until  his  neighbours  in  the  crowd  remarked 
his  want  of  loj'alty,  and  cursed  liim  for  a  Jesuit  in  disguise,  when 
he  ruefully  uncovered  and  began  to  cheer.  Sure  he  was  the  most 
unlucky  of  men :  he  never  played  a  game  but  he  lost  it ;  or  engaged 
in  a  conspiracy  but  'twas  certain  to  end  in  defeat.  I  saw  him  in 
Flanders  after  this,  whence  he  went  to  Rome  to  the  headquarters 
of  his  Order ;  and  actually  reappeared  among  us  in  America,  very 
old,  and  busy,  and  hopeful.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did  not  assume 
the  hatchet  and  moccasins  there ;  and,  attired  in  a  blanket  and  war- 
paint, skulk  about  a  missionary  amongst  the  Indians.  He  lies 
buried  in  our  neighbouring  province  of  Maryland  now,  with  a  cross 
over  him,  and  a  mound  of  earth  above  him;  under  which  that 
unquiet  spirit  is  for  ever  at  peace. 

"With  the  sound  of  King  George's  trumpets,  all  the  vain  hopes  of 


i 


542  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

the  weak  and  foolish  young  Pretender  were  blown  away ;  and  with 
that  music,  too,  I  may  say,  the  drama  of  my  own  life  was  ended. 
That  happiness,  which  hath  subsequently  crowned  it,  cannot  be 
written  in  words ;  'tis  of  its  nature  sacred  and  secret,  and  not  to  be 
spoken  of,  though  the  heart  be  ever  so  full  of  thankfulness,  save  to 
Heaven  and  the  One  Ear  alone — to  one  fond  being,  the  truest  and 
tenderest  and  purest  wife  ever  man  was  blessed  with.  As  I  think 
of  the  immense  happiness  which  was  in  store  for  me,  and  of  the 
depth  and  intensity  of  that  love  which,  for  so  many  years,  hath 
blessed  me,  I  own  to  a  transport  of  wonder  and  gratitude  for  such 
a  boon — nay,  am  thankful  to  have  been  endowed  with  a  heart 
capable  of  feeling  and  knowing  the  immense  beauty  and  value  of  the 
gift  which  God  hath  bestowed  upon  me.  Sure,  love  vincit  omnia; 
is  immeasurably  above  all  ambition,  more  precious  than  wealth, 
more  noble  than  name.  He  knows  not  life  who  knows  not  that ;  ho 
hath  not  felt  the  highest  faculty  of  the  soul  who  hath  not  enjoyed 
it.  In  the  name  of  my  wife  I  write  the  completion  of  hope,  and 
the  summit  of  happiness.  To  have  such  a  love  is  the  one  blessing, 
in  comparison  of  which  all  earthly  joy  is  of  no  value;  and  to  think 
of  her,  is  to  praise  God. 
/       It  was  at  Bruxelles,  whither  we  retreated  after  the  failure  of 

(our  plot— our  Whig  friends  advising  us  to  keep  out  of  the  way— 
that  the  great  joy  of  my  life  was  bestowed  upon  me,  and  that  my 
dear  mistress  became  my  wife.  We  had  been  so  accustomed  to  an 
extreme  intimacy  and  confidence,  and  had  lived  so  long  and  ten- 
derly together,  that  we  might  have  gone  on  to  the  end  without 
thinking  of  a  closer  tie;  but  circumstances  brought  about  that 
event  which  so  prodigiously  multiplied  my  happiness  and  hers  (for 
which  I  humbly  thank  Heaven),  although  a  calamity  befell  us 
which,  I  blush  to  think,  hath  occurred  more  than  once  in  our 
house.  I  know  not  what  infatuation  of  ambition  urged  the  beauti- 
ful and  wayward  woman,  whose  name  hath  occupied  so  many  of 
these  pages,  and  who  was  served  by  me  with  ten  years  of  such  con- 
stant fidelity  and  passion ;  but  ever  after  that  day  at  Castlewood, 
when  we  rescued  her,  she  persisted  in  holding  all  her  family  as  hei 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND  543 

enemies,  and  left  us,  and  escaped  to  France,  to  what  a  fate  I  disdain 
to  tell.  Nor  was  her  son's  house  a  home  for  my  dear  mistress ;  my 
poor  Frank  was  weak,  as  perhaps  all  our  race  hath  been,  and  led  by 
women.  Those  around  him  were  imperious,  and  in  a  terror  of  his 
mother's  influence  over  him,  lest  he  should  recant,  and  deny  the 
creed  which  he  had  adopted  by  their  persuasion.  The  difference  of 
their  religion  separated  the  son  and  the  mother:  my  dearest  mistress 
felt  that  she  was  severed  from  her  children  and  alone  in  the  world 
— alone  but  for  one  constant  servant  on  whose  fidelity,  praised  ^be 
Heaven,  she  could  count.  'Twas  after  a  scene  of  ignoble  quarrel 
on  the  part  of  Frank's  wife  and  mother  (for  the  poor  lad  had  been 
made  to  marry  the  whole  of  that  German  family  with  whom  he 
had  connected  himself),  that  I  found  my  mistress  one  day  in  tears, 
and  then  besought  her  to  confide  herself  to  the  care  and  devotion 
of  one  who,  by  God's  help,  would  never  forsake  her.  And  then  the 
tender  matron,  as  beautiful  in  her  autumn,  and  as  pure  as  virgins 
in  their  spring,  with  blushes  of  love  and  "eyes  of  meek  surrender," 
yielded  to  my  respectful  importunity,  and  consented  to  share  my 
home.  Let  the  last  words  I  write  thank  her,  and  bless  her  who 
hath  blessed  it. 

By  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Addison,  all  danger  of  prosecution,  and 
every  obstacle  against  our  return  to  England,  was  removed;  and  my 
son  Frank's  gallantry  in  Scotland  made  his  peace  with  the  King's 
Government.  But  we  two  cared  no  longer  to  live  in  England:  and 
Frank  formally  and  joyfully  yielded  over  to  us  the  possession  of 
that  estate  which  we  now  occupy,  far  away  from  Europe  and  its 
troubles,  on  the  beautiful  banks  of  the  Potomac,  where  we  have 
built  a  new  Castlewood,  and  think  with  grateful  hearts  of  our  old 
home.  In  our  Transatlantic  country  we  have  a  season,  the  calmest 
and  most  delightful  of  the  year,  which  we  call  the  Indian  summer: 
I  often  say  the  autumn  of  our  life  resembles  that  happy  and  serene 
weather,  and  am  thankful  for  its  rest  and  its  sweet  sunshine. 
Heaven  hath  blessed  us  with  a  child,  which  each  parent  loves 
for  her  resemblance  to  the  other.  Our  diamonds  are  turned  into 
ploughs  and  axes  for  our  plantations ;  and  into  negroes,  the  hap- 


544  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND 

piest  and  merriest,  I  think,  in  all  this  country ;  and  the  only  jewel 
y  which-  my  wife  sets  any  store,  and  from  which  she  hath  never 
i)arted,  is  that  gold  button  she  took  from  my  arm  on  the  day  when 
she  visited  me  in  prison,  and  which  she  wore  ever  after,  as  she  told 
me,  on  the  tenderest  heart  in  the  world. 


•\  ' 


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